The Book Of Cat With Moon
by JaganshiKenshin
Summary: When Kaitou Yuu strolls into the park one seemingly-peaceful night, his life is changed forever, and danger lurks around every corner.
1. Solitude of a Falling Star

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon C1: Solitude of a Falling Star

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Action/Adventure

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes)

Summary: When Kaitou visits the park at night, a surprise awaits---one that may cost his life.

Disclaimer: Kenshin does not own the Yuu Yuu Hakusho characters (they are the property of Togashi Yoshihiro et al), and does not make any money from said characters. What Kenshin does own, however, are all the original characters in this work. Any attempt to "borrow" these characters will be met with the katana, or worse.

The events in _Idiot Beloved_ take place shortly after the Dark

Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that, and _The Book of Cat With Moon_ begins about a year after the end of _FS._

A/N: I've been away from writing for FAR too long and I'm grateful to be back! Kaitou Yuu is one of those under-appreciated characters who piqued my interest. Much of his life is left to our imagination, and I took full advantage, creating a storyline, family, and history, while building on what was presented in both manga and anime.

This particular tale is set against the backdrop of the _Idiot Beloved/Firebird Sweet_ saga, and certain parts may make little sense unless you've first read them both, since it postulates that Hiei never took part in the fight against Sensui, and that he's speaking with Kaitou face-to-face for the first time here.

It covers the course of a few years, and is told mainly from Kaitou's viewpoint. The first chapter's title comes from a Hiei image song performed by Hiyama Nobuyuki.

Repeating a debt of thanks: Jo-chan, your early encouragement helped me a great deal, back when even the thought of posting fanfics was strange, new, and terrifying.

Accompanying character sketches can be viewed on my LJ homepagey, linked in my profile. Thanks, and please review!

"Why can't I run?"

The Book of Cat With Moon (C1: Solitude of a Falling Star)

by

Kenshin

When he first entered the park, Kaitou Yuu felt no sense of danger at all.

_'The park is an oasis of calm---'_

Terrible. Ghastly.

And yet Kaitou loved the park at night. Of the many cities-within-a-city comprising Tokyo, _Yoyougi Kouen_ was his favored realm. He walked quickly, a tallish boy of 17, black of hair and eye, with a long, powerful-looking neck and an easy stride. He was glad of his heavy overcoat; the weather was cold for May, and he was more troubled by cold than heat, by noise than silence, by crowds than solitude.

The air smelled leafy, with an underlying tang of car exhaust. Swaths of lawn were dotted with specimen trees, lamps stabbed circles of light onto benches, ponds drew people and wildlife alike. But at night the park turned into a secret society of one, and solitude was his office, his competence, his---dare he say?--- Territory.

Usually, it worked wonders upon his Muse, whom he naturally pictured as a beautiful girl. But tonight she had become a toad, playing him false. This stubborn silence had laced his thoughts with desperation, for Kaitou harbored ambitions that went beyond merely besting Meiou Academy rival Minamino Shuuichi. He saw himself as the head of a publishing empire, and all the wealth and prestige that such a position would entail.

He had, not long ago, signed a contract with one of the world's prestige publishers of poetry, Sakura House.

Someday, he would live where he could have an overview of the park. Money could buy that.

He hurried over brick-paved walkways wide enough for rollerskaters and street performers, now blissfully free of both.

Kaitou's bench faced a thick stand of trees, their roots obscured by undergrowth. Though they lay some 50 yards distant, their very existence gave him the not altogether unpleasant sense of being lost in the woods.

But not quite alone. The lamp that kept him from darkness had also attracted a large gray moth, now trying to batter itself to death against the bulb's glare.

_'Sphinx moth seeks the light of doom_

_Feathered antennae waving a semaphore of---'_

Even worse.

When analyzing someone else's work, whether literature, film, or boy bands, Kaitou's pen was his sword.

"We have every confidence you will become our youngest poet," publisher Jinouka Aoi had assured him. At first the elderly gentleman's statement had seemed flattering. Now it sounded as though Jinouka regarded Kaitou like a circus dog doing tricks on its hind legs.

For all his published works, Kaitou had never written so much as a single poem, not even the sophomoric free verse in which his classmates reveled.

He had been struggling to perform tricks on his hind legs---to compose one decent poem---for two months now. Not a quatrain, couplet or sonnet had passed muster.

Maybe haiku was his forte.

Kaitou again studied the suicidal moth. It revealed no secrets, no magic. He switched his gaze to the trees.

_'Bench overlooks trees_

_Branches shake fists at night sky---'_

Definitely not haiku.

A gust of wind tugged the moth sideways. The trees rustled in response. Kaitou jerked his head at the sound.

When nothing emerged from the trees, he relaxed. Kaitou Yuu often fell prey to nerves and knew it.

As a child, he had crept into the hall long after his bedtime to peer into the living room, where his parents watched monster movies. And he froze. Always.

Fascinated yet horrified by the likes of Gojira, Kaitou could not look away until the closing credits rolled. Then he would steal off to bed, only to lie staring at the ceiling, ravaged by scenarios of horror until exhaustion conjured up a nightmare-plagued sleep.

And Tokyo's streets, though far safer than almost any other world metropolis, were still fraught with dangers: sneakthieves, hustlers, the occasional demonic insect.

A cloud veiled the full moon. The only sound was the rumble of distant traffic; the only movement, the moth fluttering down in its death spiral.

Kaitou heard another growl, dismissed it as the gears of a passing truck. But the guttural sound repeated, and the stand of trees rattled in answer, and kept rattling.

Something was emerging from those trees. Kaitou's heart began to knock.

Up impossibly high from the ground, a long snout thrust through the boughs of a maple tree, followed by a reptilian head. Snuffling, as an animal on the hunt. Eyes set in front. Binocular vision. Predator.

Cursing the lamplight, Kaitou tried to render himself invisible as the beast's head thrust forward, and the neck went on and on, parting the leaves, ending in a massive body.

Terrible and fearsome to behold, it cleared the trees and stood for a moment as if lost in thought. For all the its size, it moved with a grace that spoke of speed in reserve---speed meant not for fleeing but pursuit.

Minamino's little plant attack in Yojigen Mansion had effectively killed Kaitou's interest in botany. He had since shifted toward the study of zoology.

Even struck dumb with fear, with his heart threatening to shake free of his ribs, Kaitou knew that Japan boasted no native animal the size of an elephant, with six wicked horns arrayed like a crown, none with fangs to give a saber-toothed tiger pause, whose armored hide rivaled that of the rhinoceros, coupled with hair in a luxuriant crest down the giraffe-like neck.

Could it be a dinosaur, somehow detached from time? As was true of the extinct diplodocus, it was taller at the withers than the sloping hindquarters, and had massive dinosaur legs, yet no tail. Its color was difficult to discern in this paltry light.

And it seemed more a monster from a movie than this world.

_Now might be a good time to flee._ But the old black magic of fear and curiosity kept Kaitou frozen. His hands clamped themselves painfully to the bench, fingers white as bone.

The monster was not yet facing him, its head cocked in an attitude of listening.

No. Not listening, but looking; peering at someone standing foolishly close, a mere ten feet from its forelegs. Where had this person come from?

Kaitou had not seen him approach, nor could he tell the stranger's identity, but his size underscored the monster's mass; his head barely level with the beast's chest.

The monster cracked its long jaws. To Kaitou's astonishment, it spoke, addressing the person at its knee. Its voice was like gravel splashed with blood, and the sentiment was equally violent: "Move or die."

Kaitou wanted to comply. But he was one with the bench.

The person near the monster didn't move either, or cooperate by dying.

The monster thrust its head forward, short-sightedly, then said, "Oh, crap, it's _you._"

_They're friends?_

"Thanks for noticing." A heavy voice, lazy and sullen, as though the speaker had been dragged from a sound sleep.

The monster rumbled, "Word on the street is you're finished. Done for. Nothing but a D-class nonentity."

"I'm looking at one now."

The monster gave a long, low hiss. Evidently friendship among his kind was short-lived. "Prepare to die, rodent!"

"After you." The cloud fell away from the moon, revealing that the 'rodent' was young, a kid really, somewhere around Kaitou's own age. And he was walking toward the monster.

Recalling the moth that had beaten itself to death against the alluring light, Kaitou feared the boy was setting himself up for a similar fate.

Kaitou opened his mouth to shout a warning, but a sword appeared in the boy's grip, making a silver slice against the backdrop of trees. Kaitou's jaw clicked shut.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" inquired the boy, in those same sullen tones.

"Not if you're offering me lunch," the beast countered.

"Dinner. At least get your mealtimes straight."

"Whatever." By some cruel twist of fate, the beast turned its head and spotted Kaitou. Its eyes gleamed red. "And I see it comes with a free appetizer." It licked its long chops; slaver dripped down its fangs.

Then it was on the move, stalking toward Kaitou, muscles roiling beneath the armored hide.

A hard chill gripped Kaitou Yuu's spine. A few minutes ago, his greatest problem had been writer's block.

The monster took another step. Kaitou could not run. Nerves rasped to bare wire, he was helpless to break the stalemate of fear with either intellect or will.

_Fell asleep on the bench. Having a nightmare, like when I was little. Probably wake up now_.

And then Kaitou must have blacked out an instant, or there was some sort of temporal dislocation, because the boy was suddenly standing ten feet behind the monster, facing away from it, sword extended behind him.

For a second or two, boy and monster made a still life. Then the monster simply collapsed into numerous bloody hunks.

Kaitou sat blinking.

With Kaitou's fourth blink, the boy turned toward the monster hunks again. He raised his left hand, palm-down. A sheet of flame spurted from his hand, igniting the hunks. They burned like barbecue coals marinated in lighter fluid and played with a blowtorch.

A breeze wafted the stench of burning flesh to Kaitou's nose; all thoughts of barbecue vanished in a rush of bile that bit the back of his throat. He kept it down by sheer willpower.

The boy stood watch on the fire, its golden glow illuminating his tranquil face. The flames quickly banked to a simmer of ash. Then the boy turned his head, and his eyes met Kaitou's, and he left the ashes, moving with a gait as lazy as his voice.

The sword was still gripped in his hand.

Fear, too, refused to relinquish its grip. Kaitou pictured the blade bisecting him---there was so much less of him than there was of the monster that surely he would only be cleft in twain. Then the boy would spray him down with fire, ignite Kaitou's still-twitching flesh, and watch Kaitou burn just as calmly as he had watched the monster.

For the life of him, Kaitou could not move.

The boy advanced so slowly that it was difficult to tell whether he walked with a slight limp. He stepped on the fallen moth (whether by accident or design Kaitou knew not), and stood regarding Kaitou in a silence that clawed his nerves to shreds.

Then he heaved a great sigh, and sat next to Kaitou. "I've lost a step or three," he said.

Up close, the boy was good-looking, with hair as ebony as Kaitou's own, but spiked where Kaitou's was whorled; he had sculpted arms, smooth clear skin and expressive, slanting eyes.

Kaitou's cashmere overcoat hid a rather bulky figure, in contrast to his narrow, ascetic face. This discrepancy had always bothered him, for he felt his form was not a true reflection of his function.

Kaitou peeled his hands off the bench to adjust his eyeglasses. The wood grain had left red striations in his palms.

With visible effort, as though it now weighed a hundred pounds, the boy lifted his sword to examine it. "Disgraceful."

"I b-beg your pardon?" Though still glazed over with fear, Kaitou found his voice.

"That thug was right." Laying the sword aside, the boy shook his head, gave a soft, snorting laugh; steam rose from his nostrils, reminding Kaitou of pitchforks and brimstone. "Look. Blood all over."

"Blood all over---?"

"Usually when I cut, they ain't got time to bleed."

Kaitou had no idea what the kid was talking about.

Yet the monster had recognized his slayer, and he did look naggingly familiar. Clad in black, with sleeveless shirt, the boy did not seem to comprehend that it was cold. His sword arm was not quite bare, but covered by a fingerless black gauntlet that stretched almost to the shoulder. A string of wooden beads hung at his neck; his hair was enlivened by a white starburst, but kept in relative check by a white headband.

It was the headband that tipped Kaitou. "H-Hiei, isn't it?"

Hiei nodded. "Got it in one."

"They talked about you. When we went against Sensui."

Hiei again lifted the bloody sword. "At least it didn't break. That hide was tough." Bending, he wiped the blade on the grass, then gave it up with a grunt of disgust, sheathing the dirtied sword in a _saya_ strapped at his back. It looked as though it would be uncomfortable. "That'll teach me to come out when I'm less than a hundred percent."

"Then why--"

"I just go where they send me."

"They?" Kaitou wondered who would be powerful enough to send this killer to the park. "Yuusuke and Genkai?"

"Ch!" Again, that soft snort of a laugh. Hiei lifted the strand of beads without removing it, dangling it in Kaitou's face like a challenge. "Know what this is?"

"Of course," snapped Kaitou. It was a Rosary, named for the repeated prayers said upon its 59 beads. The wood-and-pewter Crucifix crowning its center swayed. Hiei let it thump back against his chest.

"Good for you. Then you'll realize I traded one form of servitude for another. My life's no longer my own, even when I'm under par like this."

_Under par?_ wondered Kaitou. _I'd shudder to see him at a hundred percent._

"It's an uneasy alliance at best," Hiei continued, "but it is an alliance."

Humoring the boy, Kaitou nodded as though he understood. "Then that monster just now---"

"Tourist." Hiei shaded the word with a fine degree of scorn. "Poor dumb bastard thought he was in for an easy meal. Some eat souls. Some eat flesh and soul together. Some just enjoy the killing; it's a status thing. And some are harmless. But that _youkai_ was right; I'm done for. Lucky for me he was so busy talking trash that I got in the first stroke."

Only one word that struck a chord of recognition in all Hiei's gabble. "That thing was a demon?"

"So you _are_ a brain after all. Judging by your columns it's hard to tell."

Kaitou exploded from the bench, glaring down at Hiei. "I'll have you know I've p-published any number of books on---"

"Yeah." Hiei gave a dismissive wave. "I've read 'em."

Taking his life in his hands, Kaitou stated that it required a certain refinement of intellect to appreciate his body of work.

"I've also read Shakespeare. No trouble appreciating _that_."

"You weren't just looking at the pictures?" Kaitou itched to bring up the _avant-garde_ bomb Hiei had filmed back in his boy-band days---loosely based on _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ in the same way that the honkings of former pop stars were based on the scale that produced Mozart's compositions.

"You're in love with words," Hiei retorted.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Want to play with words? Write poetry."

Kaitou sank back to the bench, legs shaking like gelatin. Could Hiei have probed Kaitou's thoughts, discovered his newly-contracted book? Worse, did he know Kaitou was stuck? "My columns are read by---"

"Save it." Hiei stifled an enormous yawn.

Kaitou was beginning to suspect that this wasn't a dream. No one insulted his body of work in his dreams.

Then Hiei leaned a little forward, studying the trees, perhaps hoping for another monster to manifest.

And Kaitou studied him. The Hiei Kaitou knew had been a member of the boy band Romantic Soldier, headed by Minamino. As part of his job, he had watched them perform once or twice. A mix of curiosity, bafflement, and envy was the result.

You could never tell from the boy's rather sulky stage presence that he even had a personality, much less one such as this. One that hacked monsters to pieces and then ignited them.

But hold that thought: the Sensui gambit again. During their long walk through the cave to Game Master Amanuma's lair, Urameshi Yuusuke had quipped, "Too bad Hiei's not here. He could've handled all seven on his own."

A heavy silence had fallen. Minamino cast Urameshi a look that was almost fearful. Minamino the plant master, Minamino of the steely gaze and steelier whip. If mere mention of Hiei could wring that reaction from Minamino (who had so casually caused the death, however temporary, of a mere child) what sort of fell creature was he?

The creature sitting next to Kaitou.

Kaitou added two and two together and came up with 666, the number of the beast.

Hiei gazed into the distance, steam puffing from his nostrils.

If Kaitou's body were reduced to ash, no one would connect his disappearance with Hiei; no one would realize Hiei was a demon, for he had insinuated himself into the human world with a cover identity so thorough it would take a secret agent to unravel it. But Kaitou never completed that line of thought.

Hiei straightened, with a little gasp, almost of wonder. "Did you see that just now?"

Startled, Kaitou glanced around. "See what?"

"Look!" Rising, Hiei pointed toward the trees. "Can you believe it?"

_Another monster?_ Kaitou thought. _Wonderful_.

Then he spotted it. Parallel to the trees, skimming along the grass---a cat. _A cat? He's excited about a cat?_

"Never seen a cat with so much fur." Hiei was right; it resembled a walking dandelion. "Kitty-kitty-kitty," Hiei called. The cat stopped, turned its head.

_Run, cat_, Kaitou urged, _Run!_

The cat sniffed the air. Hiei called again.

Of course it would run. It was an animal. Animals had instincts. They knew when something meant them harm.

The cat's tail shot upright, bottle-brush fashion. Then, defying logic, it pivoted, and danced toward them.

Something took hold of Kaitou at that moment, something that went beyond fear, an awakening into the realm of portent.

The cat. The grass. The moon.

With each step, the cat touched off an effect that leapt outward like a great flash of lightning to encompass the entire park. Not a sound intruded; the world might have been wrapped in cotton batting. Dreamlike, yet not a dream, the cat's footfalls struck separate, shutter-frozen images of itself, of the park, like a series of photos, blanching color from the world, dazzling Kaitou with black and white clarity.

_Flash, flash, flash,_ the cat came on.

Although Hiei appeared unmoved, Kaitou's breath clenched in his ribs. He felt a wild panic that could not express itself in flight, nor in outcry; he was trapped, stabbed through the gut, a moth pinned to velvet.

Then the strange brilliance---or whatever it was---passed. The world settled back into color and sound and movement. The cat reached the bench, and stopped to sniff Hiei's outstretched fingers.

The cat was gray, with copper eyes in a flattish face. Persian. Kaitou noted its details in a detached way.

"Hey, you." Hiei grabbed the cat around its fluffy midsection and lifted it so its eyes were level with his. "What are you doing out here?" One hand held the scruff of its neck; the other probed the fur at its throat.

_He's going to break its neck._ Nothing would surprise Kaitou now, not even if Hiei unhinged his jaw like a python and swallowed the cat whole.

The demon's slim, human-looking fingers kept probing. "Ah," Hiei spoke at last. "Thought so." A metal disk between his thumb and forefinger winked in the cat's ruff. Hiei addressed the cat again, lifting it once more to eye level. "Someone let you out tonight, didn't he. Yes he did. The park's no place for the likes of you. Not with hungry D-class _youkai._"

The cat was purring. _Purring_.

Hiei rose, tucking the cat under one arm, where it went limp and content, as though it had just stepped into its own personal limo. "Well." He continued speaking to the cat. "Your owner's going to get an earful from me, yes, that's right. And if he doesn't keep you out of trouble I'll give you to the idiot."

The demon had gone a few steps when he stopped and turned to again regard Kaitou, the cat hanging from his arm like luggage.

After a moment, he came back.

Maybe, Kaitou speculated, whoever 'sent' Hiei to dismember other demons also demanded that he leave no witnesses. His scalp prickled.

Hiei's next words confirmed the suspicion: "You're dead."

_He still has the sword._ Watching Hiei's measured footfalls, Kaitou turned all but numb. The monster, the fire, the cat, had left him drained, a piece of flotsam washed up on shore. _This is it? This is how I die: skewered on the bloody sword of this demon in disguise?_

Something about this ignominious end kindled a spark of anger, touched off the small blaze of his own fighting spirit.

His gut twisted. Even if he could do nothing more than glare defiance at his killer, Kaitou would not die like a worm.

Hiei reached the bench. Refusing to cower, Kaitou lifted his head to meet the rending of sword, the searing of flame.

"Stay out of the park at night," Hiei said.

Then, still lugging the cat, the killer turned his back on Kaitou, walked away, and vanished in the distance.

Only then did Kaitou realize he had never even tried to cast his Territory.

(To be continued: As Kaitou's troubles mount, a friend encounters trouble of his own.)

-30-


	2. The Tokyo Tangent

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon C2: The Tokyo Tangent

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: T/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes)

Summary: Kaitou Yuu is caught between a rock and a hard place.

Please see Disclaimer in Chapter 1

A/N: While the anime names Kaitou's hometown as 'Mushiyori City,' there's no actual 'Swarm' city, so, thinking of it as a nickname, I've placed him in Shinjuku, a bustling area of commerce north of Youyougi Kouen, and having its own park. Accompanying character sketches can be viewed on my LJ homepagey, linked in my profile. Thanks, and please review!

"You're dead."

The Book of Cat With Moon (C2: The Tokyo Tangent)

by

Kenshin

The last well-wisher had just left Hiroshi Ukyou's home.

He was alone now save for his aunt, and he could not speak to her of his distress. He supposed his mother would understand, but he hadn't seen her since he was a toddler.

A boy of 15, aristocratic of feature, with quick fingers, bold brown eyes, and brown curling hair, he sat in the living room, biting his thumb. After a few moments he extracted the thumb to squint at it.

Forestalling the possible onset of thumblessness, he lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then exhaled a plume of smoke.

Aunt Sachiko, whom he privately named The Velvet Dragon, raised a silent eyebrow.

Fellow antiques dealers were often deceived by her placid face curtained with twin waterfalls of black hair, and the seemingly innocent glint in her chestnut eyes.

Buyers and sellers alike soon found themselves on the floor searching for their metaphorical teeth, wondering what hit them.

Thanks to Sachiko's efforts, theirs was a wealthy family, with a country house in Hokkaidou that was rarely used. The penthouse on Platinum Street, in exclusive Shirokanedai, was in the harbor district, within shouting distance of famed restaurants and foreign embassies alike.

The living room's appointments embraced items both old and new, woven together by the unifying principle of color: gold, copper and bronze, with sleek ebony accents. The windows formed a bank of eyes facing east toward the water.

But on this strange and desperate night Hiroshi found no comfort in the lush surroundings.

Clad in a high-necked Chinese silk dress, which on her contrived to appear Victorian, Hiroshi Sachiko perched across the cavernous room on a narrow bench, her back ramrod straight.

As far as Hiroshi was able to tell, his aunt ate little and slept less. He sighed out another plume of smoke.

Sachiko-obasan rose and glided toward him. Sweeping up a silver ash tray from the coffee table, she deposited it on the polished side table next to Hiroshi's elbow, managing to make of the act a pained accusation.

Her face was beautiful, composed, ruthless.

Giving him her back, Aunt Sachiko next roamed to the window. Almost clinically detached, she brushed against objects here and there on her brief journey: a Tang vase on its ebony stand, a little jade horse, an elaborately-lacquered tray, sweeping her fingers to detect invisible dirt, making of this, too, an accusation.

"Will you have more tea?" Her voice was low, cultured, and utterly devoid of sympathy.

Hiroshi declined. The atmosphere was so repressive, there was no possibility of conversation, even the polite, superficial sort. His tension craved an outlet. He might break something. He might scream.

As soon as he was able to extricate himself from Sachiko's presence, Hiroshi went to his room and locked the door.

His thoughts were spiraling. He sat at his Louis XIV desk and took up a Delamont Crousate fountain pen, a golden cigar-shaped affair that had probably cost more than the entire month's salary of Meiou Academy's principal. Pen in hand, he opened his journal, but gold turned to lead; words died.

Giving up the attempt, he rose and paced the room, glancing out the windows now and again. They faced northeast. Tokyo Tower was visible in the distance.

At last he stopped, lighting a fresh cigarette.

The lamps were low; the city beyond his windows glittered like tumbled diamonds. Turning, he touched a hidden button on his desk. Long silk curtains slid forth, blocking the view.

He dragged in another lungful of smoke, coughed, then crushed out his cigarette in an empty drinking glass.

Though Hiroshi could not yet speak directly of what had happened, there was someone subtle enough to understand oblique references.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number of Kaitou Yuu, but his fingers went nerveless. He hung up without ever talking with the one person who might offer wisdom.

0-0-0-0-0

Kaitou Yuu was still shaking.

So rattled was he by the incident in the park, he had taken a cab home, he who walked everywhere, rain or shine.

In his room, undamaged perhaps, yet caving to the aftereffects of shock, Kaitou looked around. His mouth was dry and sour. He grabbed a can of green tea from his desk, popped it open, and gulped it at room temperature.

Distant growls of traffic reached his ears.

Safe in his own home, Kaitou could not shake the sense of danger lurking. His thoughts---and therefore his room---had been invaded by a demon.

He fumbled at his tie. He could not get his coat off.

Who would listen to his fears?

Kidou Asato, with his bristle-blond hair and tough look. Ability: Shadow. Kidou's courage in battle had given them invaluable aid. Yanagisawa Mitsunari: broom-haired and sleepy-eyed, who could Copy any person down to the last detail.

Kaitou could build up a quick enough rapport with the likes of Kidou and Yana---both of whom privately expressed admiration that Kaitou was already a published author. Kaitou in turn stood in awe of their genuine toughness, for when each had discovered a hidden Ability, Kaitou had not been tested to his limits as they had. Kaitou's Ability, Taboo, rendered anyone within his Territory incapable of violence.

Once their bewildering powers had manifested, the three of them sought help from the renowned Master Genkai. Eventually they joined forces with Urameshi Yuusuke to foil Sensui Shinobu's plan of destroying the barrier between demon and human planes.

Perhaps Yana and Kidou would understand. But Kaitou had not seen them since they defeated Sensui. He also had his pride. He would not go whimpering to them.

Others Kaitou saw more often also had certain abilities. Minamino Shuuichi, beacon of excellence, master of plants.

At Yojigen Mansion, Kaitou Yuu had gone after Minamino with everything in his arsenal, and yet still lost to the boy whose academic scores consistently topped his own.

But as they had worked against Sensui, Kaitou had developed a respect, even a liking, for Minamino. The fact remained, however, that Minamino wielded that deadly Rose Whip. And now, Hiei, with sword and flame.

Dangers untold. Movie monsters come to life. Kaitou placed the empty can of tea back on his desk.

A modest apartment in an equally modest Shinjuku street, this place had always been another haven, made so by his mother Junko's natural aptitude for homemaking, and his father Shintaro's steadfast attention to duty.

If Kaitou had any love for his own appearance, it lay in seeing his mother's ascetic features mirrored in his own, and also the echo of his father's jovial, bulky form. It was the dichotomy between those two extremes that bothered him; his was no subtle blending of attributes, but rather as though some indifferent artist had painted the structure of Mother's head upon Father's body.

He was grateful that his parents were not awake. Mother would take one look and know something terrifying had happened, and there was no way Kaitou could explain. Father would offer stolid comfort, but Kaitou refused to disturb them.

Kaitou always thought that they looked upon his intellect with something akin to awe, as though they did not believe themselves capable of producing such a rare bird.

They worked hard to give him every advantage, to send him to Meiou Academy; Father as middle-management for a small import firm, and mother as the cosmetics saleslady of an equally small department store. Both needed their rest.

Kaitou's bed had been made when he left the house early. It was still untouched. His desk, next to the bed, faced the wall; a view often distracted him. On one side of the sliding window lay a single chest of drawers. The only extravagance in this austerity was found on the wall adjacent to the window: bookcases floor to ceiling, packed with books, some of them doubled and tripled on the shelves.

Loosening his tie at last, Kaitou flung it to the bed, then shrugged out of his overcoat. Then he went directly to the desk.

Yet he did not fall to work at once. This particular enterprise was, he realized, unworthy of him, mean-spirited, petty. By rights, he ought to cease and desist.

And yet he could not stop himself, nor could he ward off a sly satisfaction each time a stinging critique saw print.

_And no one knows the true identity of Everyman. No harm done. Right? And besides---_

He flushed, angry with himself, angrier still with Hiei. Because of Hiei, Kaitou would now forever be wary of the park. His treasured oasis had been stolen.

With no one to talk to, and knowing only one way to deal with the theft, Kaitou swept aside his ethical arguments, switched on his word processor, and worked in a fury.

_Romantic Soldier, the band once thought to be rendered silent by means of a mercy killing, has once again subjected the ears of Tokyo's unfortunate listening audience with a pointless remix of one of their saccharine tunes. An ambitious producer has layered the number with a wall of techno-noise built brick by hyperkinetic brick. Since all their songs begin to sound the same no matter which of Romantic Soldier's sub-par male vocalists is yodeling, this masking of the selection's original content may perhaps be the only thing standing between the listener and a diabetic coma._

_- Everyman's Burden, Tokyo Tangent_

0-0-0-0-0

At one in the morning, a mere skeleton crew manned the offices of _The Kyodo Daily_, affording Kaitou considerable privacy.

One of Tokyo's premiere papers, and the polar opposite of the _Tangent_, _The Kyodo Daily_ occupies the eighth floor of a ten-story brick building in Shibuya, sandwiched between two major thoroughfares, one of which borders Youyougi Kouen. With its broad coverage of the arts, leisure, and world events, the _Daily_ insists on accuracy, and upon actual verification of facts, elements often overlooked by the _Tangent_.

His coat on a nearby peg, shirtsleeves rolled up, Kaitou Yuu tapped at the keys of an ancient typewriter. He was close to putting his weekly column to bed. Admittedly, he got a kick out of the old-fashioned setup, complete with its World-War vintage typewriter, soon to be replaced by the computer terminals everyone seemed to be adopting.

He had moved away from the tone of his earliest books. Shifting from analysis into critique, Kaitou now churned out columns which could later be collected and published in hardcover. Easier, smarter work. More fun.

Like his desk at home, Kaitou's desk at work faced a wall, though this wall was covered with sticky notes: to-do lists, code referring to future columns, words that appealed to him.

Kaitou Yuu freelanced for any number of papers, amassing as much money as possible from the smallish paychecks; not only to indulge in his liking for tailored clothes, but also for the greater satisfaction of giving something back to his parents---and to realize his goal of a home overlooking the park.

The park.

Scalp prickling, Kaitou stopped tapping the keys.

A mere 24 hours after the incident, images still haunted him: the burning monster. The one who had burnt it. The cat mincing over silvered grass, _flash flash flash_.

Even Mother had noticed. Delaying her departure for work that morning, she had stopped him before he left for school.

"Yuu-chan, what's wrong?" She tugged on a pair of brown leather gloves; the weather was still cold. He was about to issue a denial, but his mother added, "Stayed up late again watching monster movies?"

_She knew? All along?_

He and his parents lived by separate timetables; he saw them seldom, and valued whatever moments they did have together. Father left early and arrived home late, when Kaitou was usually off on assignment. Though Mother's hours were less demanding, Kaitou attended classes when she worked, then went straight to one paper or another.

While he fumbled into his shoes, he attempted to concoct a story, but he could not lie to Mother. Nor could he let her know that monsters were real---and prowled Tokyo in search of victims.

"So the jig is up," he said finally, careful to keep his voice steady. "I couldn't fool you back then, could I?" Not exactly a lie, but neither the whole truth, though he had never so longed for a mother's reassurance.

"And you can't fool me now." She folded a clean handkerchief, and pressed it into his hands.

Gathering his books and briefcase, he assured her that he was working hard, and just needed to catch up on his rest.

Mother wasn't buying it. She narrowed her black eyes. The living room clock ticked away.

There is a moment in everyone's life when he realizes his parents are not just mommy and daddy, but people, who had lives before the kid came along, who are formed in the image and likeness of God, with their own talents and gifts and dreams.

So stunned was Kaitou by this revelation that he put his briefcase down---and met his mother's penetrating stare.

With a rush of understanding that bordered on shame, he knew from whence he had gotten his intellect.

But Mother didn't press him further. Bidding him a good day, she had left him with a peck on the cheek.

The kiss might have been a powerful talisman. Kaitou had not seen Hiei nor any other monsters on his walk to work.

Dragging himself back to the present, Kaitou took a deep breath and went on with his column. Pouncing his fingers along the typewriter keyboard, he felt like a pianist wringing out a symphony from a venerable concert grand.

When he read over what he had typed, he realized that the column, lamenting the sorry state of television programming, just wanted a light touch of editing to achieve perfection.

It was always good to get away before attacking the final draft. Caffeine helped as well. Unlike the melted tar served in the newsroom, the coffee at the Silver Moon was always freshly-brewed and fragrant. Rolling down his shirtsleeves, Kaitou rose, stretching. Then, snagging his coat off the peg, he made his way to the elevator.

It had rained earlier, and the air still held the scent of flint. The sidewalks glistened with flecks of color stolen from neon signs.

The street was all but deserted. Not exactly a late-night haven, Houji Avenue was home to bookstores, electronics outlets, office buildings, and convenience marts. The Photo Finish bar was open, but only one patron emerged, wobbling down the street away from Kaitou.

Pulling up his collar, Kaitou headed south toward the cafe, then hesitated, touched by a light chill.

Wait. The Silver Moon wasn't even _open_ at this hour. What was he thinking?

"You're dead," someone announced.

Kaitou let out a hiss. "Who's there?" He whirled; no one stood behind him.

The ghostly pronouncement had startled him, but not nearly so much as the simultaneous tap on his shoulder.

"This way."

Now, the voice sounded familiar. And it filled Kaitou with dread. Hesitantly, he turned to face his stalker.

On the gleaming sidewalk, appearing like Satan's favorite handmaiden, Hiei crossed his arms and scowled.

He had come upon Kaitou so suddenly, soundlessly, yes, supernaturally, that Kaitou never realized it until the fire demon was blocking his path and Kaitou's heart was slamming against his ribs.

Taking a step toward Kaitou, Hiei displayed the same unconscious grace as Minamino. The both of them could probably get pushed off a six-story building, land on their feet, and manage to look good while doing it.

"You can't kill me!" Kaitou gave a thin protest. "Demons aren't allowed to---"

"I have a license to kill."

There was no one else on the street now, no help. Kaitou blurted, "Who are you---James B-bond or something?"

"Sort of, but less discriminating." Hiei bared his teeth. It was not a smile. Kaitou took a step back.

"How would you care to die?" inquired Hiei. "I'm fast; you've seen that. Frankly you'd be in pieces before your nerve endings could even register pain. But there are slower methods."

_What's he got against me? He can't know about 'Everyman's Burden!' Can he?_

From being chilled, Kaitou now began to sweat. Droplets oozed from his neck and slid down the middle of his back.

Hiei snorted. "Cat got your tongue?"

"I'll call the p-police---"

"Your reaction time sucks. Told you to stay off the streets."

That did it. Suicidal act or not, Kaitou's temper flared. "You told me to stay out of the PARK!"

This minute distinction seemed critical, but Hiei was not impressed by Kaitou's attention to detail. He stood statue-still, pinning Kaitou with a steady gaze, forcing him to imagine, in vivid Technicolor, the details of his impending dissection.

Kaitou began to sweat in earnest. Big beads pooled on his hairline, trembled, overflowed. Sweat slid into his eyes.

He blinked away a salty droplet, and between one blink and the next, Hiei was no longer standing in front of him, and Kaitou had never seen him leave.

(To be continued: "Stop threatening me!")

-30-


	3. Mr Kaitou Regrets

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon, C3: Mr. Kaitou Regrets

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Action/Adventure

Rating: K/PG-13

Summary: There's a barbecue, and Kaitou fears that he'll be the main dish.

A/N: Here, Kaitou writes a column on the meaning of names. Japanese names can be written using all three of their character sets: Kanji, borrowed from China, katakana, for 'loaner' words, and hiragana. When Kaitou thinks of names, he 'spells' them in kanji, which convey their full meaning. Thanks for reading this, and I appreciate your reviews!

"How many times do I have to say no?"

The Book of Cat With Moon (C3: Mr. Kaitou Regrets)

by

Kenshin

One week following Hiei's second death threat, and while he was at work, Kaitou Yuu received an invitation to a barbecue at the fire demon's home.

He tore the invitation into quarters, then eighths, then dropped it into the wastebasket: _Mr. Kaitou regrets he is unable to attend his own immolation._

"Whatever did the poor piece of paper _do_ to you, _senpai?_"

That voice could belong to no one but---

Hiroshi Ukyou looked like a guileless fourteen-year-old, until he opened his mouth, and out came the arch tones of a world-weary, middle-aged sophisticate. He was neither.

Two years behind Kaitou in school, Hiroshi still wore the deep fuschia uniform of Meiou Academy, though it was long after school hours.

Lounging against the open door, he looked every inch a Grand Prix winner in the genetic jackpot. Yet there was a dissonance about Hiroshi Ukyou as well, if only in the preternaturally-busy hands; the air took on a certain edge whenever he appeared. Kaitou automatically sat up straight.

It had not been Hiroshi himself who imparted the sad news of his father's sudden death, but a classmate. "I was sorry to hear about your father," Kaitou said, and meant it. "I wish I could have been---"

Hiroshi waved an elegant hand. "That's all right, _senpai._ As you can see my hair has gone quite gold from grief."

True enough. His feathered hair was no longer chocolate brown to match his eyes, as it had been on their last meeting just two days prior to the Hiei Incident. It was now dyed a brassy shade of blonde.

The reference to gold hair was borrowed from Irish playwright Oscar Wilde, whom Hiroshi extensively quoted. Had he dyed his hair to match the quote? If so, it seemed rather too calculating. Maybe that was how he dealt with pain.

For all that they knew one another, they never visited at home, meeting on the neutral ground of newspaper offices, trendy clubs, or restaurants. At school, owing to their age difference, their paths did not cross. Though Shinjuku was not far from Minato, just a bit north and west, the two districts seemed worlds apart.

Yet Kaitou knew that Hiroshi had no mother, and lived with his father and aunt. Now only the aunt.

Hiroshi reached into his jacket and extracted a cigarette, followed by a lighter of solid gold engraved with the family name, which meant 'inquiring servant.' He spoke no further of his loss, but surveyed Kaitou's desk. "Up to our fingertips in hard labor?"

Kaitou manufactured a smile. As its youngest guest columnist, his quarters in _The Tokyo Shinbun_ were barely large enough to fit a chair and desk, yet it was a measure of his prestige that they gave him office space at all.

_The Shinbun_ was different in character than either the _Tangent_ or _Daily_, having more print than photos, and being referred to sometimes affectionately as 'The Gray Lady.'

His editors also gave Kaitou a great deal of latitude as to subject matter; today he was writing a column on the meaning of names, to be followed by a review of the newly translated Swedish novel, _Volvo Nights_, dealing with the theme of alienation.

Kaitou wondered whether he saw alienation personified, in the form of a boy who had every advantage.

Hiroshi's given name, Ukyou, meant right capital, as in column; no newspaper column but a pillar. Perhaps there was a pun to be found, even a poem, concerning pillars, columns, and capitals, but Kaitou lacked the luster to do so.

"What's this?" Hiroshi dipped forward and retrieved the pieces of Hiei's invitation, patching them together to read. "Ah. No wonder the long face. The has-beens court your favor. How very tedious for you."

Not up to a full explaination, Kaitou settled for a shrug.

"I shall do the honors." Hiroshi busied his fingers again, reducing the invitation to confetti, then sifting it into the wastebasket. "You don't want word of this getting round."

Hiroshi edged aside just enough to permit an office girl with silver hair and sky-blue eyes to pop in and inquire if Mr. Kaitou's guest wanted anything.

"Sleek." Hiroshi flicked a glance at her retreating form.

Kaitou's agreement lay in silence.

"Show some enthusiasm, _senpai_." Hiroshi put on an exasperated air. "I'm sure she gave you The Look."

But Kaitou, fretting the constraints imposed by a fire demon, was in no mood to ask anyone out. All week, each time he took to the streets, he was on Red Alert.

"I could do this from home," he mused, indicating his computer. "It's always been perfectly acceptible to deliver my work by courier. And I've been thinking of buying a computer to replace my old word processor anyway." Such a move would not only enhance his abilities to do research without ever leaving home---it would also make his presence at the paper moot.

"My dear _senpai_, you know you would miss the water-cooler backchat, the hushed and admiring glances of coffee girls and copy boys. I surely would. As President of The Heights, I cannot allow this to pass."

The Heights, as Hiroshi referred to Kaitou's fan club, was a play on the meaning of Kaitou's name---Superior Rising Sea.

Hiei's name meant Flying Shadow. Appropriate:

_Flying Shadow seeks _

_to obliterate Kaitou. _

_How's that for the first two lines of a haiku? It would tempt fate to write its ending._

Hiroshi glanced at his watch. "Dear me, time flies when one is jammed into an appallingly inadequate office. I must be on my way." With an airy wave, he extracted himself from the doorway, leaving Kaitou to grin at his audacity.

Then he remembered that Hiroshi's father was dead.

The clock, however, was still running, so after a final glance at the shredded invitation, Kaitou finished his column.

Now the book review. Stig Stigmarsson's novel came in a white cover, a single black square in its middle, no larger than a postage stamp. The author's photo gazed at Kaitou from the inside cover: long nose, melancholy eyes, dark circles surrounding them, almost an echo of the postage-stamp effect.

Kaitou found it a struggle to frame the review, and a greater struggle to process his reactions. He had read _Volvo Nights_ three weeks ago, and was just now writing about it; for him, such a lag was unheard of.

The protagonist wanders by car through a series of vaguely troubling encounters with friends and strangers alike, each more depressing than the one before; it's implied that he eventually does away with himself. _Volvo Nights_, Kaitou concluded, was like an Ingmar Bergman film on paper. Not one month ago, he would have extolled its use of language and imagery. But since Hiei's constant threats, then Hiroshi's bereavement---

A chill closed in upon Kaitou, as though the yawning Pit of oblivion crawled toward his feet, a surfeit of Death in the air.

To get a grip on himself, Kaitou focused on the book. Okay. Maybe it was a _bad_ Bergman film, and it begged temptation to allow Everyman free rein:

_Sweden is the birthplace of many wondrous things, such as Smorgasbord, blondes, and meatballs. _Volvo Nights,_ however, is not one of them._

In the end, he kept himself in check, his review so neutral it could have been written by the computer.

That done, he badly needed recreation.

Opening a new file that was not his regular column, nor under his own name, Kaitou, with a mounting and waspish satisfaction, unleashed the dogs of war. Everyman hammered out a review of an art-house flop that had enjoyed an initial run of about three days before fading into well-deserved obscurity: Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, in which Hiei had portrayed Oberon, the Faery King:

_... with evident delight in the consumption of cheap carboard sets, the likes of which would prove an embarrassment to a middle-school production, Jaganshi seems not to realize that he is taking part in an integrated whole, and simply demands that the camera pay as much, if not more, attention to him than it does to the unhappy principal players of the piece, who seem to have given up altogether. _

_"Perhaps the remedy might include some basic acting classes, or perhaps Jaganshi's particular brand of deficiency is beyond the scope of even the most dedicated teacher to supply._

_-Everyman's Burden_

0-0-0-0-0

"You're dead."

Kaitou Yuu was almost used to it by now.

For months, Hiei would appear and 'tag' him; the hour varied, the interval varied, but never the opening line nor the following lecture: _Your reaction's too slow, this is no game_.

Hiei had even taken to calling him by name: "Hey, Yuu." Kaitou knew enough English to realize it was a play on words, the insulting equivalent of 'the nameless person in front of me.'

This time, the incident occurred in broad daylight on an August Saturday hot enough to melt pavement, far too close to Kaitou's apartment, and about a week after the publication of Everyman's take on _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, not by the _Shinbun_, nor even the Gray Lady but the exclusive and obscure semiannual, _Echoes of Celluloid._

Hiei seemed oblivious to the weather, clad in a black mantle and white scarf, an outfit clearly tailored for colder climes. His stance was easy, off-handed, but Kaitou knew both the shocking speed and violence of which he was capable.

Few people stirred on this residential street. Home was a mile due south. Kaitou did not want Hiei following him, yet Hiei had planted himself squarely in Kaitou's path. There was no escape; Kaitou could hardly muscle the demon aside.

Nerves chewing a hole in his stomach, Kaitou wondered, _What have I done to deserve this?_

He lived a clean enough life. Though he had squired beauties around town since age 16, he had never so much as kissed one. He saw no reason to break the drinking laws, or indulge in any other assorted dissipations.

He began another vague speech about freedom of the press, when Hiei countered that what on earth did freedom of the press have to do with anything, and in what manner did Kaitou wish to be killed, and that he was hosting a dinner party to which Kaitou was invited.

Then the fire monster simply teleported elsewhere before Kaitou could open his mouth to respond, "Mr. Kaitou regrets he's unable to dine today."

0-0-0-0-0

After the heat of August melted into September, September's final week turned chill in more ways than one. People everywhere clutched jackets against a knifing wind, and Kaitou Yuu had been compelled by honor to return the advance Sakura House gave him for a book of poetry that was never going to be written.

There were compensations. Due to his furious bout of 'overtime,' Kaitou now had enough funds to afford Mother and Father a modest stipend, but had also taken the first shaky steps toward his goal of becoming head of a publishing empire. He had launched a small arts paper, _Scene and Sequel._

Located in the bohemian neighborhood of Shimokitazawa, on a street so narrow and crowded with shops it allowed only foot traffic, _Scene and Sequel_ resembled not so much an office as the apartment of some eccentric collector, of which Hiroshi Ukyou at first approved, then later scathingly took to task.

Furnished with a variety of cast-offs and flea-market finds, the only unifying principle within the space seemed to be a repetition of red, gold and green.

Kaitou's desk huddled next to the doorway, and the adjacent wall was a mismatch of shelving units. An old red sideboard stood on the wall opposite the door, as a staging area for phone, fax, printer and tea tray; the last remaining wall housed a green wicker garden chair and Hiroshi's desk.

"The nerve of those Philistines." Hiroshi, lounging in the wicker chair, lit a cigarette. "Never again shall I throw away my money on a collection from Sakura House."

"You don't read poetry to begin with," Kaitou reminded him. Though Jinouka Aoi had urged Kaitou to keep the advance ("You never know," said the elderly publisher), and Kaitou was tempted by the money, he had declined.

A gold ceramic pelican, its open beak doubling as an ash tray, sat at Hiroshi's elbow. Tapping ash, he went on. "I mean to say that it's almost indecent of them, _senpai_, really it is."

Kaitou shrugged. "If I'd been able to give them something other than gibberish..."

"You say that as though gibberish were a bad thing. I'm quite certain it's charming and incisive gibberish. Or here's a plan: why not just cadge that latest tome of Sven Svendaal's?"

"Stig Stigmarsson," Kaitou corrected automatically.

"You could simply change the title." Hiroshi conjured the book seemingly from nowhere. A volume of poetry, titled _Who Am I ?_ repeated the signature cover: white with postage-stamp black square. Kaitou turned away, reining in a touch of envy.

"I'm sure no one will notice," drawled Hiroshi.

"I will."

"Well, that makes two of us." Hiroshi crushed out his cigarette in the pelican's gaping beak and lit another.

"Three, counting Stig. He's emigrated to Tokyo."

"Do tell. You don't suppose he's _stalking_ you?"

"Wonderful. Great. That's all I need."

"Buck up, _senpai_. I'm equally certain that given a millennia or two you could cobble together something quite acceptible to modern tastes."

By now Kaitou was wishing he would drop the matter.

"Ah, well." Hiroshi rolled his eyes around the room. "It's either the decor or me, and as most of this seems glued in place, I bid you _adieu_." Rising with liquid grace, he handed Kaitou a stack of manuscripts (always sneaking in one or two of his own) and took his leave.

The part-time office girl, Chiyo, though far more decorative than the furnishings, had long since gone. Kaitou found temporary relief in his solitude. Yet as he poured a cup of tea, he also felt a certain heaviness, a let-down.

As a columnist for other papers, he enjoyed a great deal of freedom. But as a publisher, he did not.

Perhaps this fog of dread was due to gloomy Swedish novelist Stig Stigmarsson's volume of equally gloomy Swedish poems. And that author's work was best consumed not on a crisp September eve with weak green tea, but an arctic midnight with a glass of hemlock.

No doubt _Who Am I?_ addressed the profound themes of aimlessly gobbling lutefisk, then jumping off a bridge.

He picked up the book, staring at the white cover with its black stamp. This time he would not glance at the author's publicity shot. Hiroshi couldn't be right. The Swede couldn't be stalking him.

He set to work.

Alone with his reading, Kaitou finished in record time. Dim illumination came from a green-gold ceramic lamp, a singular hideosity shaped like a grinning frog, a bottle of sake clutched in its front paws.

Or maybe it was a bottle of hemlock.

_A frog by any other name would be as ugly._ Silently toasting the lamp, Kaitou set to work. The only sound was the tapping of his fingers on the keyboard as he strove to keep Everyman in check.

The suddenness of another tap on Kaitou's shoulder made him jump. His chair toppled.

"You're dead," came Hiei's lazy tones.

With a long-suffering sigh, Kaitou righted his chair. He had neither seen nor heard Hiei enter the office. "I wish you'd just kill me and get it over with."

Hiei scowled. "Do I have to keep saying that you're ten steps too slow?"

"What do you want this time?"

"It's Bad Movie Night. We'll be waiting."

"Have I ever showed up before?"

Hiei shrugged. "You know, those creeps you do hang out with, all they care about is being seen with The Byline."

Reclaiming his seat, Kaitou raised a sardonic eyebrow. "As opposed to you, who keeps peppering me with death threats."

"Admittedly my charm is hard to resist."

"You go on deluding yourself and I'll go on with my little group of sycophants."

"Have you ever considered becoming less of a pompous ass?"

"Not within the past five minutes."

"It's early yet." Hiei sauntered to the frog-lamp. He surveyed it with evident disdain. "Now you look at me---"

_Beauty without, poison within. Death grooms his henchman._

The sight of the arrogant face was too much. That terrifying monster attack, coupled with Hiei's surprise appearances, had left Kaitou jumping at shadows. The disappointment of Sakura House, Stig Stalkersson---every frustration of the past few months came to a boil, and Kaitou knew its source. He spoke with all the venom he could muster. "Yes," he said. "I am, in fact, looking at you. It must be great sport, given your natural advantages, to taunt someone like me."

Hiei yawned. "I could make an effort to untangle that."

"Try growing opposable thumbs," spat Kaitou. "Then go look in a mirror---"

"I get it now." Equally fierce, Hiei cut him off with a sword-slash gesture. "Guys like you make me sick. You ignore your own blessings to whine about things of no consequence."

"You never had to think what life might be like if your outside reflected your inside."

"What a load of crap. I notice there's no lack of arm candy for you."

"Jealous?"

Hiei snorted.

"All this is very amusing, I'm sure."

"Ch. I could spend the rest of my life wishing I had your height. You, on the other hand, could easily---"

"Easily what?" Kaitou gestured toward the frog lamp. "Find a princess to kiss me better?"

"Stranger things have happened." Turning his back on Kaitou, Hiei strolled away. "Movie starts in an hour."

"Don't let the door hit you on your way out."

Hiei stopped in the doorway. He uttered no more death threats, no further insults. "I have---other obligations. So this is the last time I'll ask."

"I'll struggle to contain my sorrow."

"As for what you write about me, I don't care."

Kaitou sucked in a breath. His heart gave a twisted thump.

"Get that through your skull." Hiei turned at last, his features smooth and inscrutable. "I know I can't sing. Knock yourself out." He took two quick steps toward Kaitou. Kaitou flinched, anticipating the slash of a real sword.

"And," Hiei continued, "since you're probably on deadline, this'll save you time." Fishing a folded piece of paper from his pocket, he handed it to Kaitou.

Kaitou took the paper between thumb and forefinger, regarding it as though it might be a packet of anthrax powder. "What is this?"

"_Everyman's Burden_."

"You---" Kaitou bit off his words. Crumpling the paper, he flung it in the trash.

When he looked up, Hiei was gone.

Kaitou sat at his desk staring at the computer, seeing instead Hiei's sneer.

So Hiei had known.

After ten minutes Kaitou fished the crumpled 'review' from the trash and smoothed it out:

_Must our sensibilities be forced to suffer through yet another cookie-cutter, frenetically upbeat and hypoglycemic number from the tedious little boy band known as Romantic Soldier? Although I realize they have their fans, as Tokyo possesses a depressing and inexhaustible supply of swooning 14-year-old girls with tin ears, the lexicon of Romantic Soldier has taken on a sort of phoenix cloak. Like the ashen remains of a bad dream, these near-identical and pedestrian tunes keep surfacing again and again. -- Everyman's Burden_

Outside the slatted windows, neon pulsed its calligraphy of light.

_Your little group of sycophants?_ Kaitou thought. _The Heights._

Whereas most Japanese fan groups were composed of cheerful, enthusiastic rooters---for baseball teams, tennis players, pop stars, even famous trial lawyers---his own supporters now seemed, by contrast, bootlickers.

Hibiki, dark of skin and eye, trying unsuccessfully to ape Hiroshi's mannerisms. Juro, hating everyone and everything. Banda, with his servile flattery. The others blended into a single face, crowding up to bask in The Byline's glow.

Kaitou hadn't exactly chosen his fans, but neither had he made any attempt to discourage them.

_Do I crave bootlicking?_ His intellectual honesty demanded that the question be asked, but he found no answer.

Kaitou read once more Hiei's imitation-Everyman column. He folded the paper, tucked it into his pocket, got his coat, and stormed from the office before fear glued him to the spot.

(To be continued: Minamino's startling revelation shatters the temporary peace.)

-30-


	4. There's No Place Like Nuance

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon C4: There's No Place Like Nuance

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Action/Adventure

Rating: K+/PG-13

Summary: Kaitou decides to launch a newspaper--and an experiment.

A/N: Certain key elements and scenes from this story will make better sense if you're familiar with the background of _Idiot Beloved_, and its sequel, _Firebird Sweet_.

Tokyo is divided into many smaller 'cities' denoted by **-shi** (Inagi-shi, Komae-shi, etc.), and wards, by **-ku** (such as Minato-ku and Shibuya-ku.) Much of our action here takes place among Shibuya-ku, Shinjuku and Minato-ku. And once again, we refer here to the YYH manga extra, _Two Shots_, that chronicled Hiei's first meeting with Kurama.

As always, thanks for reading this. Please review!

"Did you just crack a joke?"

The Book of Cat With Moon(C4: There's No Place Like Nuance)

by

Kenshin

There was laughter coming from inside the house.

Kaitou Yuu paused, one hand lifted to ring the doorbell. Not just laughter, but music.

That itself seemed normal enough, along with the house. But Kaitou could not reconcile this two-story cottage, all flowers and white picket fencing, with the demon who could summon flames. That one would more likely dwell in a cave, surrounded by the skulls of his victims.

On the way there, Kaitou had rehearsed a speech demanding that the fire demon leave him alone. If he said it in front of witnesses, Hiei would have to back down.

The night was clear. Stars wheeled overhead. Somewhere, a dog barked.

As quietly as he could, Kaitou lowered his hand and backed away from the door.

Too late. The door flew open.

Hiei stood there, his eyes ablaze with a wicked spark. "Oh, good, we can start." He reached out and grabbed Kaitou by the elbow, then guided him inside the house.

Kaitou had no choice. _This is what a lamb must feel like, led to the slaughter: dazed, yet compliant_.

The living room harbored no skulls, instead being decorated in soft pastels reminiscent of a seaside resort, for all that it was in landlocked Shibuya-ku. A sofa lay against the long wall adjacent to the front window. The television blared music and light. Chairs to either side of the sofa faced the television, and the chairs were filled with people.

He knew most of them, too. Minamino Shuuichi, casual in jeans and a sweater, nodding politely. Kuwabara Kazuma, wearing a Megallica t-shirt and waving a hamlike hand. Urameshi Yuusuke, cheerful and tough, grunting, "Yo."

Kaitou recognized one attractive brunette as Yukimura Keiko, and the lanky ginger girl with sleepy eyes, Kuwabara Shizuru.

The little fire-haired American, the one rising from the sofa to greet him, that must be---

"Come sit with us!" Shayla Kidd took his hand, and corralled him onto the sofa, penning the sacrificial lamb with herself on one side and Hiei on the other. She placed on the coffee table a bowl of popcorn and a drink.

Kaitou was too suspicious to take the drink, but it never hurt to sit next to a good-looking girl. He was thankful he hadn't abused her too badly in print---at least under his own name. Hiei might actually challenge him to a duel.

Besides, it would have been a lie, even on Everyman's watch; Shayla Kidd possessed a gifted voice.

Up close, she was even prettier than she appeared onstage, and the other two girls were not exactly cavewomen. Her liquid gray eyes assessed him from beneath feathered bangs, amused. She looked as though she could handle stagecraft and bloodstains alike with equal calm.

Then she patted his knee, like he was all of ten years old. Rather than feeling insulted, he was tickled. "Oh, go on," she purred, gesturing toward his drink. "Nothing's been poisoned."

Kaitou had the grace to blush.

_They have kids, don't they? No sign of them. Probably chained in the basement._ He glanced at Shayla Kidd again. _Of course not. What was I thinking?_

Only then did he notice the signs of a family scraping by: the worn sofa, the mis-matched chairs. It bolstered his confidence. _You can do this. Now's the time._ As he opened his mouth to demand that Hiei back off---

"Man, this movie sucks," Hiei cut in. Kaitou focused on the television, and when he saw what was playing, his eyes widened.

So. He was their object of mockery.

It was a Swedish film. The color was so muted, so drained, so pallid, it almost appeared black and white.

The cast stared at one another, or the camera, the pace grindingly slow as they muttered of rutabagas or bulwarks; it was like _Volvo Nights_ without the Volvo.

Every now and then, the crowd in the living room guffawed, even chorused some lines, as if they knew them by heart.

Kaitou was now certain he was the butt of some cosmic joke, and wondered what role Stig Stigmarsson had played in it.

At a commercial break, the girls left for the kitchen. It wasn't long before the kitchen rang with shrieks of feminine laughter. Were they laughing at _him?_

Minamino yawned and stretched. "I've always wondered what women talk about when men aren't around."

Hiei squinted down the neck of an empty beer bottle. "They're calling me an arrogant, overbearing little snot."

"Just that?" Kuwabara giggled. "Slow day for you, Shorty?"

"Hiei always thinks he's the center of attention," said Yuusuke, rolling his eyes.

"Especially when he is not," added Minamino.

Kaitou had just opened his mouth to request that Hiei cease stalking him, when Minamino made a fatal error. Who would have thought the simple act of extracting a stick of gum---

"Is that GUM?" Pointing dramatically, Hiei shot to his feet, but before Minamino could respond, Hiei flew across the room, tackled him by the throat, and bowled him out of the chair.

Minamino fought back with equal fervor, defending the silver-wrapped stick as though it were his life.

Snarling like wolverines in a sack, they rolled around the floor, somehow missing the furniture. Kaitou was horrified.

But a glance at the other two boys revealed a yawning Yuusuke and an equally bored Kuwabara, apparently unconcerned with the killing spree taking place before them.

Then Minamino pinned Hiei, taunting him with the gum, using his superior height to hold it outside Hiei's reach.

And Yuusuke stood, and the stick of gum appeared in his hand as if by magic. He gave half to Kuwabara.

"Nuts," said Hiei, bucking Minamino off.

"Y'snooze, y'lose," said Yuusuke.

By the time the girls returned from the kitchen, the boys were seated again, arms folded, virtual halos over their heads. Shayla Kidd flicked a glance in their direction, then met Kaitou's eyes. She was not fooled by their performance.

Kaitou, on the other hand, was dazed. He needed out, and fast. "Well," he said, rising. "I must take my leave."

Shayla Kidd saw him to the door. As they exchanged pleasantries, she gave him a wink. "Next time," she said, "it'll go smoother. Trust me."

Then he regained the street, breathing deeply of the velvet-dark air which contained no hint of movie-watching demons.

Though he had failed to tell Hiei off, Kaitou felt he had triumphed over his fear, in however small a way. And he, having witnessed sufficient lunacy in this single night, knew there would be no 'next time.'

0-0-0-0-0

Hiroshi Ukyou opened drawer after drawer, rummaging for the right journal and pen. At least there was a desk to rummage in. Not much of a desk, granted, but a body standing on four legs. A bed would have been convenient but a desk was a desk, and that was the heart of the matter, wasn't it, really?

Chiyo, the office girl, had already gone home. Kaitou had yet to arrive. Alone in the soothing dark of October's first Saturday, Hiroshi sought inspiration.

He selected a palm-sized Moleskine, and a Delamont Millennia fountain pen, a heavy, costly black cylinder. "Young people," he announced to the empty room, "assume that money is everything, and when they get older, they know it."

But Wilde hadn't quite the same impact without an audience.

He began to write about the glories of a Japanese autumn, but what came out instead was a single sentence, over and over: _Why did your mother never return?_

Hiroshi stopped, read what he had written, but the words sounded in the low and cultured voice of Aunt Sachiko.

He fumbled out his lighter, flicked it to life. Raised journal to fire, watched as flames caressed the pages, dropped the journal in the wastebasket. Smoke filled the room. Hiroshi coughed. His eyes watered.

His father's eyes might have watered so on the day he died. Maybe he should write about eyes instead of seasons.

Since Father's death back in May, Aunt Sachiko had become increasingly reclusive, seldom leaving home. And as Hiroshi could not last long in her presence, home was almost off limits.

Eyes still watering, Hiroshi went to the window and eased it open to let out the smoke. A narrow street crammed with neon-intensive bars and clubs greeted his reddened gaze.

Eight years ago, Aunt Sachiko, the velvet dragon, with a single lift of one expressive eyebrow, had framed her question, not to Hiroshi, but the air. Then as now, there was no answer.

Answers were meaningless anyway.

Hiroshi left the window. Rather than pen and paper, he used the word processor to tap out an essay, turning a deaf ear to the insistent, ghostly voice of his aunt.

Then he printed the story and brought it to Kaitou's desk, slipping it into the pile of submissions.

And heard Aunt Sachiko: _Why did your mother never return?_

---_Because of your weakness._ The unspoken conclusion came in his own voice. He shut his eyes, clenched a shaking fist.

In the middle of Kaitou Yuu's desk, a cup trembled, then burst into shards.

0-0-0-0-0

Kaitou Yuu defiantly continued walking the streets at night. It was the first Saturday in October, one week after the awkward Bad Movie scene, and the fire demon hadn't killed him yet.

He had been working at the "Gray Lady." _Scene and Sequel_ next demanded his attention. Hiroshi had probably gone home by now, and he all but lived at the office. Poor guy; even if they let Chiyo go, _Scene and Sequel_ was doomed. They could scrape forward for a month, maybe two, no longer.

To save time, Kaitou had cut through a narrow residential street, devoid of pedestrians. A waning moon rode low in air that was scented with dead leaves.

He was halfway down the block when a flickering gray shadow caught his attention. He froze.

This time, there was no ominous quiver of air, no lightning-flash of paw, no bleeding of color from the world. There was simply a gray form pattering down the street. That dandelion fur could belong to none other than...

_The cat from the park! That night of the strange monster, of Hiei's death threats._

He had unconsciously written a haiku.

The cat stopped in the middle of the street. It raised its head, its copper eyes seeking his.

Kaitou and cat regarded one another. Noises faded. Scents died. He felt the beating of his own heart, saw his misted breath, grew oddly lightheaded.

_What is this cat?_

The cat yawned, its pink tongue curling. Then, as though recalling an appointment, it rose and whisked past him.

Kaitou shook himself. He was overworked, tired. _Ah, well, fortune favors the ill-disposed. Whatever that means._ It was something Hiroshi Ukyou would say.

Kaitou made it to the office without further incident. He paused at his desk.

Moonlight sifted through half-closed blinds, bathing the room in milky radiance, surrounding Kaitou with a sense of timeless calm. His shoulders relaxed, his fists un-clenched. Despite the unresolved issue of Hiei, and the paper's looming demise, Kaitou felt at peace.

Then the moonlight vanished in the glare of neon. The mood was shattered.

On Kaitou's desk lay a manila folder containing submissions. He eyed it with reluctance. There, among over-the-transom essays and reviews, was bound to be a piece by his friend.

Hiroshi's writing was nothing like Wilde's deft touch, and nothing like Hiroshi's own acerbic persona. That was one reason Kaitou had never asked Hiroshi for a loan. He might then feel obligated to publish one of his 'think pieces.'

_I don't want to do this. In fact, I'm sick of it._ Sighing, Kaitou got to work. His desk was cluttered; he made a clumsy, half-conscious gesture to sweep it clear, even while his gritty eyes informed him there was a coffee cup atop the mess.

A musical crash announced its fate. Uttering something more colorful than a sigh, Kaitou rose, retrieved the pieces of the cup, and deposited them in the trash.

Some time later, Kaitou Yuu stopped. Something nagged at him. He recalled the sight of his desk.

The cup had been broken _before_ he'd swept it away. He was tired, but not that tired.

0-0-0-0-0

"This movie sucks," announced Hiei. "It sucks with a suckage that goes beyond mere suckitude into total suckdom."

"A stream of deathless prose from Hiei," replied Kaitou. "Wait. I'll get my notebook."

It was nearly November, one month after Kaitou had made his reluctant appearance at Bad Movie Night. Since then, he decided on launching a scientific experiment: Project Hiei.

There was no other way he would subject himself to Mr. Death Threats and his home-made popcorn.

The Happy Wonder Theater boasted of films which other movie houses refused to run, movie houses that expected to make a profit and which had snack and soda concessions and seats not in imminent peril of collapse.

The theater was all but empty; _Cowboy Pirates Versus The Space Monsters_ was being inflicted upon them. The plot was more or less concerned with cowboy pirates battling monsters in space.

An American production, the spoken language English, the subtitles Italian. Kaitou knew enough English to follow the alleged plot, mainly having to do with cowboy pirates battling monsters in space. One of the space pirates was female, and quite pretty.

Hiei warned him not to expect much in the way of subtext. "This isn't _Citizen Kane_. Basically, what we do with these movies," Hiei nodded at a cowboy riding a dragon that was clearly a plastic toy, "is what you do, only on a lowbrow level."

"And that is---?"

"Dump on 'em."

Kaitou bristled momentarily, but Hiei was right. What else did he and The Heights do in coffeehouses, in museums, in print? He ventured, "How long have you---"

"--- known that you and Everyman were one and the same?" Hiei finished the sentence as though reading Kaitou's mind. "Since 'his' first column appeared."

"Who tipped you off?"

"No one. There's a certain algorithm to any person's written words, as unique as a fingerprint. Kurama figured that out, but I arrived there first."

"How in the---"

"Sheer talent." Hiei shrugged. "Got an eye for that stuff."

"Three of them. Unfair advantage, I'd say."

"Jealous?"

Kaitou surprised himself by laughing.

Onscreen, monsters hurled bad special effects at the heroes, forcing them to retreat inside a clear, round shield that had surely begun its existence as part of a hamster Habitrail.

"Get a load of that pathetic defense." Hiei look was accusing. "And _you_ have the ultimate shield but won't use it."

Casting his Territory chewed up energy on a par with an all-out run, often left him jittery, weak, with a ringing headache. But all he said was that Genkai had warned against it. She'd also warned that his Ability set him apart from others, and he was not sure that gap should widen, but he did not mention this.

Again Hiei indicated the movie. "I can fuse my aura with my sword to form a temporary shield, sort of like that hamster toy. Can't hold it for long, and while I'm in it, I can't attack, and I'm all about attack."

Onscreen, the hamster toy shattered, leaving the good guys wide open.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Kaitou thought, _Might as well go for broke myself._ "Ever hear of Stig Stigmarsson?"

"Wasn't he the fifth Beatle?"

"Skip it."

Hiei shoved the bag of popcorn at Kaitou. Kaitou hesitated, recalling the Gum Incident, and not wishing to be throttled on the grimy theater floor.

"Go ahead," Hiei assured him. "But hurry. Another ten minutes of this movie and I'll need something to puke into."

"Not if I puke into it first."

"I think you just cracked a joke. Do you need to lie down?"

"Not yet. I want to see how the lady pirate fares against the giant space gorilla."

0-0-0-0-0

To his own surprise, Kaitou Yuu was beginning to like Hiei.

_Scene and Sequel_ had tanked, but Kaitou defiantly scraped up enough money to launch a second paper, its tiny office located close to home in Shinjuku. _nuance_, as he named it, was devoted to reviewing the more obscure arts, and refused advertising revenue. Hiei, immediately re-dubbing it _nuisance_, informed him it would fold within a week, but his cautions fell on deaf ears.

0-0-0-0-0

"The first time I encountered Hiei," Minamino Shuuichi said, "he tried to kill me."

Kaitou was struck speechless. Here he'd been seeking reassurances. Moreover, the Silver Moon cafe seemed far too public for such a shocking disclosure.

The year drew to a close. Kaitou still sought to expand his empire. Knowing Hiei had performed on Lott Wingard's comeback video, he devised a ruse to investigate the fire demon. Why he should need a ruse at all somewhat puzzled him, but he let it slide. Being a fan, his excuse had been handed him on a platter.

British pop diva Wingard possessed an otherworldly beauty and a voice to match---one that conjured slightly mad visions of love. The video of _The Swooning_ combined her discordant melody, Hiei's swordsmanship-cum-dancing, and Wingard against a field of stars. It left Kaitou with a scalp-tingling sense of unease.

As for the lyrics---heard one way, they were innocent. Heard another, blasphemous.

As Kaitou set out on a December afternoon, he could not help contrasting Wingard with Shayla Kidd. Kidd: more mezzo, less coloratura, though not one whit less powerful, her stage persona glamour-girl-next-door as opposed to faery-queen-from-another-planet. Kidd's lyrics also had subtext: upbeat love songs masking melancholy and lament.

First on Kaitou's list: Kuwabara and Yuusuke. Neither had heard of Wingard, but Kuwabara stated Hiei was 'a pain in the ass;' Yuusuke concurred, adding that he was 'useful in a fight.'

Minamino was certain to prove more articulate. _Just,_ Kaitou thought, _not this brutally candid._

It was now late afternoon; long slats of sun splashed the cafe's tables, warming the interior. Minamino's red mane had been pulled into a mis-shapen tail, as if he lacked the time to properly fasten it. That may well have been the case. He was doubling up on classes, and working for Dr. Smith. Nevertheless he managed to look self-possessed in a chambray shirt, with tie of burgundy silk, a gray sports jacket draped over his chair.

Coffee on Kaitou's side, green tea on Minamino's. A plate of almond croissants between them. Kaitou had out his reporter's notebook, but did not take down Minamino's statement. Instead he glanced around to see whether anyone had overheard.

"Of course," Minamino went on, "back then, Hiei thought I had a hand in abducting his sister."

"Yukina?" Kaitou picked up a croissant.

Minamino nodded. "A year later, Hiei repeated the assault."

"I c-can't write about _that_."

Minamino raised an I-know-what-you're-up-to eyebrow.

"But in retrospect," Kaitou added hastily, "Hiei does seem to make a habit of---"

"Oh, that was only because he was trying to kill Yuusuke, and I got in between them," the boy replied. "He's changed a bit since then."

"Enough to work with Miss Wingard?" Kaitou prompted, though he was certain Minamino saw through his tissue-thin excuse.

Minamino sighed. "If you'd asked about any other shoot---"

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I was there."

Kaitou dropped his croissant. "You _were?_ I mean, that will certainly provide some color. For the article."

Minamino swirled his cup, as though divining something from the tea leaves, but as the Silver Moon served a well-filtered brew, he was probably not getting much data.

Choosing his words with care, Minamino said, "Have you ever seen Hiei perform?"

"You read _Everyman's Burden_, and have to ask?"

"Not as part of Romantic Soldier. As a dancer."

"Does watching videos count?"

"I used to accompany Hiei on those jobs as a sort of medic." Minamino pushed the cup away, gave Kaitou a measuring look. "Music does something to Hiei. It plays him."

Kaitou bit off a hunk of croissant, barely tasting the almond filling. "Isn't that the other way round?"

"Not with Hiei. We joke about him being nothing more than a wind-up toy, but music controls him, or seems to, on some elemental level. Rather spooky, when you think of it."

"Spooky. I'll go with that. What's Miss Wingard like?"

"No idea. She wasn't on-set, nor probably even in Japan."

"And?" Kaitou's pen poised, eagerness only half-feigned.

"It's a strange enough tale. There was the crew, and the director Alasdair Cromwell, a stylish fellow with sable-brown hair, a white goatee, and eyes like a cobra's. He was the one who'd specifically asked for Hiei."

Kaitou scribbled on his pad. "What's strange about that?"

"Hiei may be considered a one-take wonder, but he got this call at the last possible moment. There was no rehearsal, barely any time to listen to the recording. They handed him a prop sword on a minimalist set---just a black backdrop."

"No expense spared," Kaitou said.

Minamino beckoned the waitress over for refills, waiting until she had served them and whisked herself away again. "That day, Hiei's knees were causing him pain---a previous injury. Yet he nailed the performance in one take. Or so everyone thought. But Cromwell asked him to do it again."

"This is unusual?"

"No. Asking for retakes isn't unheard of, even with Hiei---there are always technical difficulties with cameras or lighting. So when Cromwell asked, Hiei complied."

Kaitou was growing impatient. "What's odd about that?"

"Hiei danced the number as before. Without a single step of variation, he re-created his unrehearsed performance."

"Okay, I'll admit that's impressive."

"Cromwell asked for a third take. Then another. Then a fifth. The crew became uneasy. Each time, Hiei re-created the performance, down to the last nuance."

Kaitou blinked.

"It scared me, frankly."

"Why?" Kaitou abandoned even the pretense of taking notes.

"Oh, not because of Hiei's machine-like precision, though I never saw anything like it before or since. No, it scared me because this was a battle. A battle, on the spiritual plane."

Kaitou's mouth had gone dry. The song itself had been disquieting enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Now this revelation. "Is everything a battle for this guy?"

"That it was a battle, I sensed as clearly as I see you now." Minamino lowered his voice. "Even the crew seemed to have an idea. Though what, or who, Hiei battled, I cannot say, nor did he ever tell me. Whether it was a force unseen, someone on-set, or even the music itself---" He shook himself. "Seven times in all he performed that dance. He was tired, in pain; I knew it, the crew knew it. Cromwell in particular knew it. But Hiei battled on. It ended only when his left knee gave out on a strenuous leap, and he literally could no longer stand. Even so it was I who called a halt, and he gave me plenty of---grief."

Kaitou wasn't sure he wanted to know, but had to ask.

"Hiei demanded I tape his knee and send him out again. I refused." Minamino's lips twitched. "He threatened to gut me like an eel."

Kaitou's coffee was cold. He gulped it anyway. It eased the dryness in his throat, born of a sudden conviction that, in spite of the rapport they had established, Hiei was still a bloodthirsty, sword-slinging demon, not to be controlled, not to be taken lightly, perhaps not to be trusted.

"Well." He fumbled for his notebook, slid it into a pocket. "Guess I'll just have to write around it."

The angle of the sun had slid; the warming bars of light gone, taking all cheer with them. Minamino rose, slinging his jacket over one shoulder. He looked down at Kaitou, his eyes glinting like leaves under ice. "If you understand nothing else, understand this: once he has a goal, Hiei would have to be dismembered and three days in the grave before giving up."

As he watched Minamino depart, Kaitou envisioned the Persian cat, its lightning-strike footsteps counting out the final seconds of his life.

-30-

(To Be Continued: The hammer falls!)


	5. The Game of Cat and Mouse

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon C5: The Game of Cat and Mouse

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Action/Adventure

Rating: K+/PG-13

Summary: While Kaitou's experiment gives him a new outlook, the world has other plans.

A/N: Anyone remember the Millennium Panic? The world was supposed to be plunged into chaos. Kaitou and his friends live on the edge of that uncertainty.

Ellsworth M. Toohey is indeed a character in Ayn Rand's novel, and his portrayal stands as the definitive analysis of one who manipulates public opinion to a particular aim.

Key elements and scenes from this story will make better sense if you're familiar with the background of _Idiot Beloved/Firebird Sweet_.

As always, thanks for reading this, and I appreciate your reviews! An accompanying sketch is up on my LiveJournal.

"I was already a monster."

The Book of Cat With Moon(C5: The Game of Cat and Mouse)

by

Kenshin

In May of 1995, a year after his first encounter with Hiei in the park, Kaitou Yuu published a retraction of his covert vendetta against Romantic Soldier in general and Jaganshi Hiei in particular, claiming personal bias drove him.

The press lauded him for his honesty. Hiei threatened to kill him for real this time.

0-0-0-0-0

Here was Kaitou's view from on high.

He knew it as he surveyed the city from the roof of the Mango Building. Yet it felt like something Ellsworth M. Toohey would do.

Kaitou glanced at the realtor who had led him there. She returned a sly, knowing look, as though reading his thoughts.

Kaitou tugged at his collar. But Toohey was fictional: a monstrous, almost inhuman character in Ayn Rand's _The Fountainhead,_ he looked down upon humanity even while attempting to manipulate it.

In Kaitou's darker moments, he felt all too much in accord with that particular viewpoint. Was he? Toohey was a critic. Kaitou was a critic. Toohey sought an empire. Kaitou---

He shook it off.

Late afternoon in mid-May showed the building and its view to best advantage. Not even the fumes and noise from traffic could rise to choke off the sweet breeze. And if Kaitou was inclined to look down on humanity, he could hardly find a better location. Close to the Shoto Museum of Art, the Mango was 15 stories consisting of upscale shops on the ground floor, successful businesses above, the surrounding city arrayed like a tray of delectable candies.

But there was no way Kaitou could afford office space. Not with his financial woes, not with wanting to rent an apartment off the park possessing an even more glorious view.

The realtor glanced at her watch. Apologizing, Kaitou followed her back down the stairs.

_Someday_, he told himself, _Someday_.

0-0-0-0-0

May drew to a close. Kaitou decided that if Hiei did not make good his latest death threat, he was nothing but hot air.

_nuance,_ Kaitou's paper of the obscure arts, was hanging on by teeth and eyebrows. He continued operating from home, seeing less of Hiroshi Ukyou, more of Hiei.

On the first day of June, it became clear that Kaitou would have to make some difficult decisions.

Needing a break, and because Hiei had a flexible daytime schedule, Kaitou lured Hiei out.

_Besides, if everything's a battle with this guy, let's see if I can find a battleground stacked in my favor._

The air poured down warm and hazy, a portent of summer to come. It should have relaxed even Atilla the Hun, yet when they stopped in front of the Rokujin Game Arcade, Hiei planted his feet apart and shot Kaitou a red, murderous glare.

"You said we were going for ramen," Hiei accused.

"I dissembled." Kaitou held the door open.

"Imagine that." Hiei stormed inside.

Kaitou followed. "Have you ever played arcade games?"

"My kids play them," Hiei said dismissively.

"Then this is your lucky day." Kaitou swept a proprietary hand around. "Let me introduce you to my battlefield."

Hiei cranked his head up toward Kaitou. "You do know I can extract my revenge upon you any time I choose."

"You do know you sound like a broken record." Laughing, Kaitou chivvied Hiei over to the console of his choice.

"But the _ramen---_"

"Don't whine." During the past year, Kaitou had learned Hiei was just barely back on his feet following a near-fatal accident---and that he possessed the metabolism of a hummingbird. "You'll be all the more motivated to compete."

Hiei's reply could not be repeated in mixed company.

"If you should feel in imminent danger of fainting from hunger," Kaitou indicated a concession stand in the corner. "Snacks over there. I believe they're more or less edible."

"It's a conspiracy," snarled Hiei. "Food first."

"Game first."

"You should work for the Yakuza, you know that?" Hiei subsided long enough for Kaitou to explain Thor's Hammer.

Two players match their general knowledge skills by means of multiple-choice questions---but they also play against the clock. Points accrue for each correct answer. With each wrong answer, Thor's Hammer crushes the player, taking away points.

Hiei half-listened, carping to anyone within earshot that he was only doing it for the food.

"Delaying your inevitable defeat?" Kaitou raised an eyebrow. With obvious ill grace, Hiei set to.

The short of it was, Kaitou hammered him.

"It's gratifying to know that there's at least one thing in which I surpass you." Kaitou dusted his hands together.

"Oh, really." Hiei jerked his head at the next console. "What's this?"

"A driving game." Kaitou adjusted his glasses. "Interested?"

"Double or nothing?"

"You're on." Elated by success, Kaitou ran Hiei through the basics of the next game.

Checkered Flag Or Crash simulates a road rally. The sole player sits inside a race-car cockpit and navigates a twisty, obstacle-littered course, which ranges from bucolic scenes to crowded urban streets. Points accrue by the second.

At first, the game seems easy; the pace starts slowly, giving a feel for the surroundings, but that is mere illusion.

Though the player can steer, he cannot control driving speed, which doubles, even triples as minutes go by---if he lasts that long. Bovines and buildings alike come flying lightning-quick. There are no second chances; you crash, you die.

Hiei took the console as Kaitou added, "You should enjoy this. It's just like real driving, only faster and more lethal."

Hiei took a leisurely lap without penalty. Kaitou had expected as much. Then Checkered Flag cranked the speed. Kaitou allowed himself a small smug grin, but still Hiei did not hit any obstacles, even when a suicidal Jersey cow jumped out in front of him and he had to make a high-speed dodge.

The girl who operated the concession stand left her post to watch. Others gathered round. Hiei's gaze remained on the console, his hands on the wheel.

People began to talk: "I don't believe it!" "That fast?"

Hiei gave a wicked laugh, tearing up the track.

The crowd was there a long time, until the manager humbly requested they leave, as nearly all the people in the arcade were watching, and therefore not putting any money into the slots.

Hiei complied, deliberately steering into the side of a barn.

Kaitou declined to take his turn. As a diversion it had given him one win, one loss, no answers.

"Not only do I have a license to kill," Hiei sidelipped, as they left the arcade to scattered applause, "but also to drive. Now buy me lunch or die."

"I've created a monster," sighed Kaitou.

"I was already a monster," Hiei reminded him.

0-0-0-0-0

Kaitou ran into Hiroshi Ukyou about a week after that, at Eberle's Bookstore.

Hiroshi's appearance took Kaitou by surprise. He looked 30, not 17, with new lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth, his usual air of offhanded, dapper disarray turned to genuine slovenliness; his linen was stained, his tie wrinkled.

Kaitou was about to ask if there was anything he could do to help, when Hiroshi said a curious thing.

"Have you heard, _senpai?_ Rumor has it our old friend Stig Stigmarsson is teaming up with Lott Wingard."

Kaitou winced. "Oh?" He kept his voice elaborately casual. "Didn't know Stig could sing."

"As far as I'm aware he can't. He will, however, recite one of his poems during the number's long instrumental break."

Kaitou felt the slow burn of envy. "How nice for Stig."

"As long as the lens doesn't crack. If only you could get a similar deal, _senpai._ Perhaps you could throw in a few subliminals, you know: 'Subscribe to _nuance!_ Buy it for your friends! Buy it for your enemies!'"

"If only." Kaitou wondered whether Hiei would be called in to perform this time. "Who's directing?"

"Fellow named Alasdair Cromwell, I believe."

_Sable hair, white goatee, eyes like a cobra's._

Kaitou felt as though a cleverly-laid net was closing in on him, the webbing all but invisible, a pattern developing that he would only be able to decipher when it was too late and the trap was sprung.

Who had set the trap? Stig? Cromwell? Fate itself? "Maybe I should write an analysis of the number."

"Maybe you should rip it to shreds."

Making some excuse, Kaitou left Eberle's for home.

As to the hard choices of money and _nuance,_ the ensuing weeks brought no clear resolution.

Every now and then, walking from job to job, Kaitou Yuu thought he heard the footsteps of someone following him, like a game of cat and mouse. But whenever he turned, there was no one---not even the dandelion cat.

0-0-0-0-0

Although less than a decade older than Kaitou, Shayla Kidd continued to treat him like a 10-year-old, and he lapped it up. She had been right in telling him to persevere, that each encounter would prove easier than the last. Kaitou found himself frequently calling to ask, "Can Hiei come out and play?"

As he sometimes found himself envying the sort of life that these two had. He treated that yearning as he would a lapse in character, telling himself that this was no life for the head of a publishing empire.

0-0-0-0-0

Four years had passed since that night in the park.

Urameshi had returned from _Makai_; Minamino was attending a prestigious medical school; Kuwabara a very good college.

Hiei, while not ascending to his former level of fame, worked steadily for an impressive living. He got a small part in another film, and a slew of commercials, and voice-overs, club dates, and trade shows. He and Shay-san shuttled back and forth between Tokyo and America. Shayla Kidd herself won a small part in a hit American film as a lounge singer; though she was onscreen for less than a minute, she had been permitted to write her own song. Their secondhand living room furniture had long since been upgraded.

Without the daily structure of school---he saw no reason to attend college---Kaitou continued writing, and squiring a dwindling number of 'arm candy.' The Heights continued to meet, though their numbers too had dwindled.

Four years was long enough to establish an empire. Yet while others progressed, Kaitou Yuu seemed to be spinning his wheels, mired in failure, unable to lift himself higher than the first flush of success he'd achieved at age 16.

Perhaps, if he were brutally candid, even sinking a bit. Something seemed missing from his life.

And the millennium, which had peered from the corners of uneasy minds everywhere, now approached for real; everyone was talking about it. A landslide of published books told frightened people how to profit from the coming disaster. Rumors of alien invasion, worldwide computer failure, famine, flood and pestilence spread like a drop of oil on still waters.

Kaitou tried to shrug it off. But despite his and Hiroshi's best efforts, despite operating from Kaitou's home, _nuance_ had folded in early '96.

To earn money, Kaitou freelanced like mad, pouring out columns, essays and reviews for anyone who would pay him.

There was one bright spot. After all this time, Kaitou was working on his first volume of poetry: _The Book of Cat With Moon_.

It was in crossing the street near the park at night in May, that it had come to him: his essays and analyses worked because he was reacting to outside stimulus, rather than holding himself at gunpoint, demanding: **Make poem, now!**

He stopped, dazzled. Brilliant in his mind, the park animated as if someone had switched on the moon, revealing danger, demons, a cat dancing over lightning-struck grass.

Racing home, Kaitou wrote with fevered intensity, pouring onto paper what he termed 'flashscapes.'

Compact, elegant visions describing a frozen moment, evoking the surrounding story from a mere scattering of words, they were more detailed than haiku, less than quatrain.

They were, for Kaitou, a leap of faith.

0-0-0-0-0

On a crisp November afternoon in 1999, Kaitou went out for a snack to tide him over until Mother made dinner. He had just reached the Silver Moon Cafe when two children, a boy and girl of about seven, waved to him, calling, "Mr. Kaitou!"

He waited for them to catch up.

Fraternal twins, as were Hiei and Yukina, each child was in school uniform: Michael in the navy blazer and rep tie of St. Joseph's, Cecilia in the taupe _fuku_ of St. Mary's---both schools as exclusive as Meiou Academy.

"Hi!" The girl, Cecilia, seemed a bit breathless from running. Fair of hair and skin, she was quite like her mother, with her mother's big gray eyes. "It _is_ Mr. Kaitou, isn't it?"

Kaitou nodded, somewhat bemused. They had often encountered one another; surely they should know him by now.

Michael---resembling Hiei, but with the same gray eyes as his sister---drew his dark brows together in a ferocious scowl. "You're the one who writes those bad reviews about Daddy."

The girl's lip trembled. "Why do you hate him so?"

"What?" _Haven't written one of those poison pen columns in years; how'd they learn my former_ nom de plume?

Clasping both hand beneath her chin, the little girl peered beseechingly up at him, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "He's a good father. Really he is."

The boy agreed. "He's the only one we've got."

Kaitou's mouth went dry. He backed up until the facade of the Silver Moon hit his rump, but the children were relentless.

"What did Daddy ever do to you?" Michael demanded.

"Why would you _say_ such mean things about him?" Cecilia implored.

"Sometimes he cries himself to sleep at night."

"Mommy doesn't even wait until night."

The door swung open and Hiei emerged, laden with bags and boxes. "Oh for the love of---" The children disengaged from their attack, running up to him; Hiei offloaded the packages into their eager hands. "You leave Mr. Kaitou alone."

"Were we laying it on too thick?" Cecilia inquired, peering into one of the bags. "Ooo, croissants!"

"I thought we were doing pretty well," said Michael, around a mouthful of cookie.

"They're so cute at this age." Hiei beamed.

The children turned to Kaitou, bowing prettily, in unison. "Sorry, Mr. Kaitou!" said Cecilia.

"Think of it as an early Millennium prank," added Michael, holding out a bag. "Please accept this!"

The bag crackled as Kaitou, wary of traps, hesitantly withdrew a golden, sugar-spangled disk.

"We'd better get back," said Hiei. "Mom's probably loading her shotgun by now." He steered the kids away.

"Mom got a shotgun? Ooo, I want to see!"

Halfway down the block, both kids turned to wave at Kaitou. When the trio had rounded a corner, Kaitou returned home, his mission to the Silver Moon forgotten.

He laid the cookie on a plate next to his computer, where every now and then he would glance at it and grin.

0-0-0-0-0

The following morning Kaitou Yuu got a call.

"Kaitou."

"Hiei." Kaitou raised a shoulder, pinioning the phone to his ear while he typed. He was used to Hiei's manner; the demon wasted no time on small talk.

"Which sounds better?" Hiei demanded: "'You are made entirely of wormspittle,' or, 'You are made primarily of same?'"

Kaitou grinned. "You writing a love letter to Shay-san?"

"Idiot. Men don't write love letters. Come on, you purport to be an author---which sounds better?"

"Who's the unfortunate object of your attention, then?"

"Some restaurant. Bad service."

"And you left them standing?"

"Kaitou, you wound me. I am a respectable citizen."

"Primarily."

"Which---me or my letter?"

"Both." Laughing, Kaitou hung up.

0-0-0-0-0

Sakura House, with its distinctive imprint of a single cherry blossom on a white field, brought out _The Book of Cat With Moon_ later that November. They gave Kaitou a launch party; Hiei and Shay-san attended and actually bought copies; so did Minamino and Kuwabara. The remaining members of The Heights drifted in, drifted out again. Hiroshi showed up at the last moment, long after everyone else had left, to present Kaitou with a costly fountain pen.

Kaitou could never afford such a pen himself. He accepted it with thanks. Hiroshi looked better now than when he had told Kaitou about Stig Stigmarsson and Lott Wingard. Perhaps being alone suited him. Perhaps money was his consolation.

What was Kaitou's? Walking home from the party, he knew with a crushing certainty that the gladhanding days were gone.

In the long run, books earn more than articles. He had written two books of criticism at age 16 and the publisher who had brought them out was no longer in business. He could not interest another such publisher.

When he wrote of wonders, and not vitriol, Kaitou's paychecks dwindled. He worked more, worked harder, so hard that he often got his subjects confused, mixing references without intending to, always just catching himself in time.

Sometimes he thought of quitting.

He had returned to picking others apart. There was plenty of fodder to be found: this popular TV show, that manga artist.

A new era lurked around the corner. And Kaitou was not sure where to go.

0-0-0-0-0

A week after the pub party, Kaitou was eviscerating TV's top comedy for the Gray Lady when Hiroshi's fountain pen ran dry.

He laid the pen down, sighed, and reached for a pencil, but Hiei stopped him.

He looked quite human today, in faded jeans and a cream-colored Aran sweater. "Here. Have mine." Perching on the desk, Hiei handed Kaitou a black fountain pen.

With Kaitou no longer in fear of him, Hiei had long since been made free of the apartment. Mother thought him 'cute;' Kaitou knew better than to contradict her. Father approved of his gravity; Kaitou did not disabuse him of that notion either.

Hiei had stopped by to warn Kaitou that if he spent his life hunched over a desk, he would turn into a lump of putty and thus be dead all the sooner.

Kaitou wrote with Hiei's loaner for a bit, impressed with the smooth feel of the nib. The pen looked familiar. He held it up, squinting.

The cigar-shaped body with its silvertone cap and arrow clip had a familiar look. "Parker?" he wondered aloud. No Parker logo. On closer inspection---

"Hero?" he said, in shock.

"Befitting the man who owns it," smirked Hiei.

"A HERO?" Heroes were workmanlike knock-offs of the more renowned Parker, costing one-twentieth the real thing.

"You like it. More than that poser pen that just ran dry."

"Any port in a storm," murmured Kaitou, dashing off another sentence with the eel-slick nib. "And now, if you will kindly remove your bony butt from my work surface---"

"My butt's far from bony. It's like a cannonball."

"The condition of your butt is hardly of interest."

"You're the one who brought it up."

"And you're the one who won't drop it."

"Two cannonballs. If you don't believe me ask Kurama."

"I would sooner be torn to bits by wolverines."

"That can be arranged."

Kaitou's loopy, quasi-surreal conversations with Hiei provided welcome distraction. Choking down laughter, he cringed. "And Minamino knows the condition of your cannonballs because---"

"He's the one who has to patch it when I get it kicked."

"As if you ever do."

"You'd be surprised."

"I'm sure I would. Now move it before it inadvertently becomes the subject of my next column.

"You could do worse."

Kaitou heaved another long-suffering sigh. "Is the sole purpose of this visit to boast of your anatomy?"

"No." Hiei extracted a bottle from his pocket, tossed it on Kaitou's desk. "Here."

"Perfume? You shouldn't have." Kaitou sniffed. "I don't smell anything."

"Of course you don't. It's water."

"You shouldn't have," Kaitou repeated. "I bathed not three hours ago."

"Holy Water," Hiei elaborated.

"Do I look as though I need an exorcism?"

"Idiot. It works against demons."

"If I spray you down with it, will you leave?"

"I'm the one demon in a thousand who's more or less immune."

"More or less?"

"More or less." Hiei hopped off the desk.

"Didn't you once tell me, and I quote, 'Our battle is against principalities and powers invisible?'"

"Yeah." Hiei made for the door. "And they have henchmen."

"Wait, your pen, I'm not finished with---"

"Keep it," Hiei said. "Just admit you like it better than that Limited Edition Von Snotmeister Millennium."

Under his breath, but with a half-smile, Kaitou told Hiei where he could park his pen when next they met.

(To Be Continued: Hiei's lying---but why?)

-30-


	6. Our Man In Tokyo

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat and Moon C6: Our Man In Tokyo

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Action/Adventure

Rating: K +/PG-13

Summary: Who is the mystery man at the Silver Moon?

A/N: Old friends from another of my YYH fics (_Operation Rosary_) make their return appearance here.

As always, thanks for reading this. Please review!

"Do you know that guy??"

The Book of Cat With Moon (C6: Our Man In Tokyo)

by

Kenshin

"Where are we going tonight?" yawned Akane.

"You'll see." Kaitou Yuu wondered whether he should thread his arm through hers. With her sleepy amethyst eyes and great cloud of polished-copper hair, Gaikon Akane was more candid in her approach than others Kaitou had squired about town. She had no qualms about referring to herself as 'arm candy.'

This could indicate a wry sense of humor, but given that they only met at noisy night spots, it was difficult to tell. She pouted prettily, but kept pace with him.

Akane was the bright spot on Kaitou's Millennium horizon; he had been her escort for two weeks now: movie premieres, bistro gatherings and club openings.

Though the cost was eating him up, in this much, at least, he was ahead of Minamino Shuuichi: the expensive art of hauling beauties. Photo-worthy ones at that, attracting papparazzi as

moths to the flame.

The trouble was, no relationships developed.

Akane might prove different, might prove interesting, given half a chance; he thought she might also be interested in him, might even welcome the break from expensive flash-fests.

"Is it far?" Akane's breath threaded the chill November air.

"Just up the block." A group of businessmen wove past on their way to the next karaoke bar. Knots of people gazed into shop windows, while others emerged, packages in hand.

_Shop early, shop often._ It was partly due to Akane that Kaitou could not afford Christmas gifts this year.

The Silver Moon Cafe is Tokyo's best-kept secret---if by secret one means hidden in plain sight. Famous people may relax in complete safety from news hounds, a fact which Hiei had often mentioned and appreciated.

Kaitou ushered Akane inside, relaxing into its warmth, inhaling the welcome aromas of cinnamon and coffee. Gleaming display cases and polished cutlery added subtle glamour. Hiroshi Ukyou was already commanding center stage at a large round table, members of The Heights flanking him: Juro, Banda, Hibiki, Natsuko. The few, the proud, the die-hards.

They regarded Kaitou and his date, curious, expectant. But Akane paused in the doorway, planting her heels like a stubborn mule. "That's it? The surprise? Just some coffee house?"

Kaitou started to explain the Silver Moon's appeal, but she cut him off: "No photographers?"

He saw her mental wheels turning; the sleepy look vanished as she calculated the declining amounts that had issued from his wallet.

She did the math. "Sorry, kid. It's been fun."

_KID? I'm 22!_ "But..."

She shot him a sympathetic look, but all the same, wheeled and vanished through the door.

And they had seen. Every bit of it. The Heights had seen. A blush of shame crept over him. He considered leaving in Akane's wake, as though he, too, had forgotten something, but it was too late to pretend.

_How could I have mis-read her so badly?_

The clink of dishes snapped him out of it.

Reluctant but resolute, Kaitou approached the table. "Oh, buck up, _senpai_," Hiroshi stage-whispered. He looked even better than their last encounter at Kaitou's publishing party, more rested, cattish in his grace, cigarette tucked into the corner of his faintly-mocking lips. "We all have our off-days."

"Akane?" He sat next to Hiroshi. "Uh, she remembered some last-minute thing at work. I'm kind of jammed up, too."

"Not so busy that you cannot lap up adulation?"

Kaitou glanced at the rest of the Heights. Most did not look in the least bit ready to 'adulate.'

Hibiki, dark of skin and eye, with his unsuccessful attempts to emulate Hiroshi, cigarette at the wrong angle in his mouth.

The hulking Juro, despising everything and venting to everyone about the comings and goings of other patrons.

Even Banda did not ooze a word of his usual flattery. He seemed terribly interested in his coffee mug.

Only Natsuki was cheerful and eager, her toffee-colored hair and cornflower-blue eyes rendering her pretty enough to pass Kaitou's muster. He sensed her gaze on him, and while that might have soothed his ego after Akane's beating, she was 17. A young 17 at that; he felt more parental than romantic.

As for the rest of them, Hiei had been right. Sycophants. And far fewer in number than the good old days.

Apart from Hiroshi and Natsuki, did they even read his work? What kept them coming to these gatherings, when they appeared to take no pleasure in them?

He thought he could figure out Natsuki. Admiration bordering on a crush. No, scratch 'bordering.'

But why the others? Kaitou was not sure he wanted to know.

"Pastries await." Hiroshi broke in on his gloom. "And my virtues are many: I can resist everything except temptation."

Quoting Wilde again, Kaitou realized. "Nothing for me," he said hastily. "In fact---" He rose from his chair. "I've just remembered another engagement."

Natsuki's face fell.

"Ahh, the has-beens again?" Hiroshi lit another cigarette. "Why do you insist on hobnobbing with those peasants?"

To say anything in response to that would put him even more on the defensive. Murmuring an apology, Kaitou left the cafe and walked a boulevard from which the crowds had thinned considerably. He strode along, arguing with himself. _There has to be some good even in Juro. Maybe he loves puppies._

Two blocks north, he paused at a busy intersection. Hearing a commotion, he glanced up.

Gaikon Akane was its cause. Across the street she stood, outside Violin, a new eatery with a long waiting list.

She was clinging to the arm of Stig Stigmarsson.

_Fast work, even for her_. Kaitou edged toward them, stopped short of crossing the street. The street around the lucky duo was thick with curious people, bright with the flash of cameras.

Flashes hammered his vision, reminding him uneasily of the cat in the park, dancing in moonstruck frames, _Flash flash flash_. He looked around, half-expecting to see it.

Only Akane was there, glittering like crystal; Stig sucked light into the black hole of his personality, pale complexion rendered pastier still by a shapeless dark overcoat.

Flashes, popping Kaitou's illusions one by one.

He was not gifted with a particularly mesmerizing voice, nor the physical attributes of a Minamino, a Hiei. All he had was wit, perhaps a bit less razor-edged than he liked to imagine.

But looks were not necessary: Stig proved that. Fame alone was the magnet. Every girl on his arm had been a business deal.

He felt soiled.

People swarmed like the demonic insects that had once infested the city, but no one noticed Kaitou.

After a childhood filled with monster movies, Kaitou stood in a bubble of silence and pondered real monsters. Now he _knew_ beyond doubt he was Ellsworth M. Toohey---a failed, toothless, powerless Toohey.

Like Dracula, Ellsworth M. Toohey was fictional, yet vivid. Toohey who could love nothing, create nothing, who fed on destroying the work and lives of others. Even Toohey's own niece, in her way as young and bright and innocent as Natsuki.

For a delicious few moments, Kaitou conjured a column savaging the work of the gloomy Swedish novelist-cum-poet and the publicity-seeking beauties who fed off his fame. It felt wonderful. Words flew from his imaginary pen like a scalding sea of cobra venom.

Then the venom washed away, leaving him beached, a flotsam of dried melancholy.

_I'm not heartless, am I? I love my parents. This city. My friends? And who might they be? The Heights? _

_I want someone to love me. Natsuki? No._

His own breath threaded up into the cosmos, pale plumes of misery. People shouldered him aside as the light changed. After a while he crossed the street to make his way home.

0-0-0-0-0

On that same night, across town, on the tenth floor of an ordinary-looking building, in an office ostensibly devoted to an electronics firm, its 'head accountant' faced a man whom people took as its CEO.

The office had an air of quiet prosperity. Discreet lighting lingered on expensive furnishings, framed artwork, and the black lacquer conference table at which both men sat.

A smallish painting, recently-acquired though ancient of origin, graced the north wall. The artist had depicted peony buds in languorous splendor, one bursting into full bloom. A blue butterfly on a leaf looked as though it might take flight and land on the edge of one's teacup. The image was welcome on this bleak night.

On the south wall, like a tumble of captive stars, picture windows displayed Tokyo. The city they were pledged to protect. And because of that pledge, there was little time to appreciate either art or life.

Special Agent Ueda Issei returned his attention to a folder of papers, under the watchful gaze of Mr. Narita Shun.

"Sir," he began, "I'm studying this old case because...?"

"You tell me." N sipped tea from a moss-green cup, then put the cup down, his rather pouchy eyes shrewd and steady. Perhaps even his wife and three boys (whose silver-framed photos sat on his desk) called Mr. Narita Shun 'N.'

N's clothes were expensive, impeccably tailored, yet made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was going heavy around the middle. In his field-agent days, N had been as fit and tough as Issei, maybe more so, which gave Issei some uneasy reflection on the ultimate fate of his own waistline. But even that could prove a blessing in disguise: N's blunt features and soft chin caused many a foe to sadly underestimate him.

N was testing him now.

Deep beneath the building, where the real business of the Agency took place, there were, among other quarters, a firing range, an interrogation room, a jail cell, and laboratories.

Lab-C is at the far end of a corridor sealed with submarine-like doors. Its own environmental systems separate it from the rest of the facilities, and its size (a cramped six feet by eight) allows for occupation by two people at most. Protocol regarding its use is the most stringent in the entire Agency.

N believed Lab-C should not be located in the heart of the city, and had long tried to acquire a more isolated property. The twice-burnt-out Minoru Doll Factory. The Tarukane Manor.

Issei glanced from the paperwork to N. "But the incident was cleared." A senior Special Operative who had been in the Agency's employ for 24 trouble-free years, was seeking an antidote for their hard-won sample of a virus created by The Other Side, a virus deadlier than Ebola.

One day, a test tube had shattered.

The operative followed procedure to the letter, remaining sealed in the lab, preventing the virus from escaping and contaminating the city. Because of that attention to duty, he saved countless lives, but the lab became his tomb.

The engineered virus causes uncontrolled hemhorraging from every organ. Blood gushes from the nose, eyes, and ears. Death comes in a matter of hours.

Yet even the operative's demise could have been avoided if the glass faceplate in his hazmat suit had not also broken.

"We're re-opening the cases." N folded both hands on his paunch. "Someone close to him recently met a similar fate."

Temporarily baffled, Issei paged to a new spot in the file. "I don't understand---someone working in our labs?" Ah. No. Different location, no virus involved. Also ruled an accident.

"It's all yours," N said.

Issei raised an eyebrow. "We dusted for prints, swept for fibers, hairs, every conceivable form of evidence. Spotless. No one else was in that lab." No one ever got near that lab except medical researchers with special clearance. The video records confirmed this. By the grace of God, the operative's young assistant had been on loan to Lab-A, where they deal with far less hazardous concoctions.

"When the possible offers no explanation," said N, "it's time to seek the impossible."

Having teamed with Hiei to take down the demon Yabuta, Issei was familiar with the impossible. He reached into his jacket for a bottle of echinacea, thumbed it open, swallowed two capsules. In his experience, working with Hiei always called for an immune-system boost. "Could the video record have been altered?"

"It could," admitted N.

Issei felt a faint stirring of relief.

"But it wasn't," N added, deflating Issei's hopes. "We've also ruled out the unlikely possibility of sudden, catastrophic failure in both test tube and faceplate."

"Some form of sonic weapon?"

"Sonic vibrations would shatter all glass in the vicinity, not just that test tube, the faceplate, and one empty beaker in the equipment rack---all of different make."

"Action at a distance, then. Foul play."

N gave a lift of his heavy shoulders. "You'll probably want to add some B-complex to that tea."

"But how?"

"I assume you also carry a vial in your arsenal?"

Issei flushed. "No, I meant how did---"

"That, son, is what I am confident you will discover."

"I'll do my best not to let the Agency down." Issei took three more vitamins, chasing them with lukewarm tea. Action at a distance. A mysterious failure of glass. An operative dead.

Issei now knew about demons. Before the Yabuta incident, he had been blissfully unaware of their presence. During his first mission with Hiei, they had faced an array of monstrous henchmen that would give even James Bond pause.

Yet not a single one of those monsters proved more powerful than Hiei. "I'd like to request Hiei as back-up."

To Issei's surprise, N shook his head. And when he gave his reasons, Issei didn't like it, but saw the wisdom in N's refusal.

"I'd better stop in at the pharmacy on the way home tonight," murmured Issei.

"Ahh." N gave a beatific grin. "Who needs to watch the soaps when I've got all this?"

0-0-0-0-0

"---and I'm in a hurry, so I shove my books at the cashier when she says, 'I know you, don't I?'"

One day after that sorry incident with the Heights, Kaitou Yuu heard Hiei's running commentary but did not respond.

They walked the crowded park together, with Hiei abominably cheerful, Kaitou floating on his own berg of woe.

Last night had shaken him, left him empty, and he did not know how to refill himself. This dull gray morning Kaitou was channeling Juro, hating everything. Maybe with his star on the wane, the bootlickers would simply attach themselves like remora onto the next big shark. Maybe Stig Stigmarsson.

He charged along, collar up, head down, hands in pockets. Hiei, in a sleeveless gray shirt, oblivious as always to the weather, easily kept pace with Kaitou's longer strides.

"So where was this alleged incident? Eberle's?"

"Shut up, Yuu. I'm the one talking here. So I'm thinking, 'Great, another autograph hound,' and I look at her for the first time, mousy little thing but cute in a way, so I take pity on her and go, 'Yeah, I was in some boy band once,' and reach into my pocket for a pen to sign an autograph when---"

"A Hero pen I take it."

"Naturally. But she cuts me off and says, 'You're that man's friend, aren't you? That distinguished-looking man?'"

People flicked curious and admiring glances at Hiei. No one looked at Kaitou. He hated the world again. "Wonderful."

"And then she starts _grilling_ me about you."

"About me?"

"Are you deaf or stupid or both?"

"Nuts to you."

"Anyway that little girl trashed my ego. I think she could just about stand up to yours."

"What in hell are you talking about?"

"The girl you don't want to meet."

Just off the pathway, a young couple stared openly at Hiei. The girl tugged on the man's sleeve, whispered something to him. Hiei ignored them. He was conversing with Kaitou, who therefore had his full attention, though surely he kept an eye out for any stray demons he could cut up and set on fire.

"Who said I don't want to meet her?" Kaitou challenged.

"She's no arm candy."

"Are we talking caveman?"

"Cave_woman._ You put too much stock in looks."

"So says the man who captured an American beauty."

"And you're not paying attention. I already said."

"Does this girl know that I'm---"

"Mister Byline? How could she?" Hiei snorted a laugh. "All she's ever heard me call you is 'Hey, Yuu.'"

"Even if she's read my work---_The Book of Cat With Moon_ doesn't have a photo---"

"And just how will you disabuse this unfortunate young lady of the notion that you are Yuu?"

Kaitou tried working that out. "There are ways."

"Good luck with that particular intellectual exercise."

The conversation had become so cryptic Kaitou felt his head might detach from his body. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not interested in her, remember?"

"Says who?"

"She's coming to our annual Open House this weekend. There will be lots of television producers and other circus folk."

"For a guy leading a secret life," Kaitou said sourly, "you certainly chose a public profession."

"I didn't choose it. It chose me. And you're not invited."

"Naturally."

"She thinks you look, and I quote, 'manly.'"

"Oh?" Kaitou mentally preened himself.

"Which only proves she's unstable," retorted Hiei.

"I take exception to that---"

"I should warn you," Hiei cut in.

"So we _are_ talking caveman."

"Cave_woman_. No, she has a son."

Now Kaitou waxed indignant, manipulated like Pavlov's dog, but with no payoff. "You should have said she was married."

"Widowed. Kid can't even talk yet."

"Good thing I'm not invited."

"Party starts at two." With that, Hiei peeled away from Kaitou and sprinted across the park, and was soon lost to sight.

0-0-0-0-0

Miss Fudo Michiko was no cavewoman.

True, she didn't have amethyst eyes, nor even cornflower-blue. They were green. Not leaf-green, not emerald, but a sort of olive.

And they were half-hidden behind her eyeglasses---large, round lenses that magnified her eyes into trembling pools glimpsed through sun and shadow.

Her hair was nothing but mouse-brown, cut in a page-boy bob. She was not stunning, not elegant, but not ugly, surely not ugly, not tall either, taller of course than Shayla Kidd, but not tall. A bit awkward, nothing like Shayla Kidd's stage-trained grace, but appealing in the way of a colt or fawn.

Not his type. Not in the least.

Yet she was easy to talk to, even at the open house swarming with 'circus folk,' even with her boy Shinta clinging to her leg and peeking up now and then at Kaitou with his large olive eyes, then hiding his face in Mamma's skirts again.

So easy to talk to that, when Shayla Kidd finally (and with affectionate exasperation) shooed them out the door, they were the only people remaining, and the sky had long gone dark.

Hiei phoned him the next day, sing-songing, "Kaitou's got a girrrrlfriend."

"Do NOT."

Hiei hung up. Kaitou held onto the phone.

_Miss Michiko. When can I see her again?_

0-0-0-0-0

He had not been invited and was surely not wanted, but locks posed no problem to this particular housebreaker.

Wincing at the smell of stale cigarette ash, Ueda Issei was thankful he had consumed an extra-large dose of vitamin C that morning. He ran a practiced glance around the living room. It looked like a vacancy: sheets thrown over armchairs and sofas, as though the staff had been dismissed in haste and the residents moved far away. The former was true. The latter was not.

He crossed the room to an adjoining corridor, seafoam-deep carpet tickling his ankles. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, Special Agent Issei prepared to expertly toss the joint.

0-0-0-0-0

Kaitou Yuu's bitter mood managed to reassert itself, even after meeting Miss Michiko.

It was two days after the Open House, and he'd avoided the Silver Moon long enough. Besides, members of the Heights rarely ventured out in broad daylight.

He could see why. The place was packed.

He spotted Hiei at a corner table, in conversation with a man Kaitou did not know. Nodding 'hello,' Kaitou looked in vain for another table, but Hiei waved him over.

The table was laid for one, with a single stack of napkins and a dish of assorted sugars in front of Hiei. The other man had a stoop-shouldered, avuncular appearance. Hiei introduced him as Chomo Shunsuke, a video producer who'd been at the party. Kaitou had no memory of him.

"This is hardly a formal business meeting," Mr. Chomo assured him. "So you're not interrupting. I was just buying croissants when I saw 'One-Take Hiei' here." He continued to bestow rather lavish praise on Hiei's abilities.

Hiei grunted. "As a singer, I'm a pretty good dancer."

"You ought to watch him sometimes." Tucking a bakery box under one arm, Mr. Chomo Shunsuke rose. "Worth his weight in gold." Bowing, he took his leave.

"Does everyone call you that?" Kaitou wondered.

"See if you can grab the waitress." Hiei scowled at the sugar. "I'm starved."

"One of these days, I'll hear you say 'no thanks, I'm full.' Then I'll fall over."

"I'd pay good money to see that."

"So this 'One-Take' thing---"

"Holdover from my Dark Tournament days." Hiei grabbed a butterknife, brandishing it like a sword. "In a fight, there are no retakes."

"And you approach everything as a battle because...?"

Hiei was amused. "There's another way?"

After taking Kaitou's order, the waitress set down Hiei's coffee along with a plate of oatmeal cookies; Hiei immediately dispatched one. "Anyway it's not true."

"What's not?"

"Sometimes I need as many as three takes."

Kaitou laughed. A few more of these loopy exchanges and he'd forget his troubles altogether. He beat Hiei to the last cookie---but only because Hiei sat lost in thought.

Following Hiei's gaze, Kaitou saw a man pass their table, hesitate a split-second---or had he?---then make his way up front to the cash register. Did his glance flick toward Hiei? Kaitou wasn't sure; the reaction had been that subtle.

This man, too, was a stranger, about Urameshi Yuusuke's height, with the same coloring: jellybean-black hair and sienna eyes, but older, probably in his late 20s, with flatter features than Yuusuke's.

"You know this guy?"

Hiei blinked himself out of his reverie, then picked up a packet of sugar and toyed with it.

"Well?" prompted Kaitou. One of his lifelong ambitions was to avoid battle at all costs. Hiei's mention of the Dark Tournament brought to mind old feuds, maybe a cafe-leveling fight. But that man just now had looked more like an accountant than a contestant.

Hiei shrugged. "Possibly."

"What does 'possibly' mean?"

"Maybe I met him at some corporate deal."

"Maybe?" Kaitou studied Hiei, but the fire demon could have been cut in stone.

_Hiei's not like me. He remembers everything, since his mother's womb; I've learned that much about him at least. He either knows the guy or doesn't_.

"We do a lot of work at private parties." Hiei did not look up. "People come and go."

Pondering the carefully-framed reply, Kaitou continued to scrutinize Hiei, who revealed nothing by way of expression or gesture. That stony silence was itself revealing.

_He's lying,_ Kaitou realized, _but why?_

(To be continued: Will Ueda Issei's discovery spell trouble?)

-30-


	7. Hey, Yuu!

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon C7: Hey, Yuu!

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: T/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes)

Summary: On a dark and lonely street, anything can happen to a man without fighting skills, pursued by an unknown assailant.

Please see Disclaimer in Chapter 1

A/N: Character sketches can be viewed on my LiveJournal page, linked in my profile. Thanks, and please review!

A knife in hand is the great equalizer.

The Book of Cat With Moon (C7: Hey, Yuu!)

by

Kenshin

Someone was following Kaitou Yuu. And this time it was not just his imagination. Footfalls crunched behind him, matching his pace.

The district of storage facilities, red-light concerns and breakthrough businesses known as Myu-Myu was probably not the best place to pick up a stalker. Kaitou wrapped his coat against the night's damp chill and pressed on.

It was later in December, but Kaitou had not been able to discover why Hiei lied about the stranger in the Silver Moon. He was not exactly the type to harangue the Silver Moon staff with, "Do you know this guy?"

_And this guy following me---do I know HIM?_ Kaitou caught a glimpse of his pursuer, half a block behind him. The man was muffled in a long bulky coat, his shoulders hunched.

_Stig Stigmarsson? Gloomy Swedish author, arm candy thief. Or---that very stranger from the Silver Moon?_

Given this potential threat, Hiei's dissemblance regarding the stranger took on an ominous new tone.

It was late; seemed forever late, seemed Kaitou was always leaving some meeting at some unholy hour. Forever off-balance, forever fighting to retain his former star status, Kaitou grasped at dwindling paychecks the way a starving man grabs food.

And like a starving man, Kaitou was exhausted in mind and body. All senses dulled, like a man sleepwalking.

Mother would have insisted he rest, except that Kaitou had moved out of his parents' apartment. "I get it," Mother had said, winking like a character in a B-grade gangster film. "You'll certainly need your own place now."

Kaitou's beaming father added, "I like her, son."

_Her._ Miss Michiko. The reason behind Kaitou's move.

And the reason for his peril. Kaitou had a good sense of direction, but with his head in the clouds, he was lost.

Busy Tomo Avenue, where he had not ten minutes ago left a meeting with a potential publisher, was nowhere to be seen. Kaitou desperately sought a train station, a taxi stand. Nothing but brick-fronted buildings hunkered down for the night.

The footsteps came, regular as hammer-blows. Surely a friend would call out? Even a gloomy Swedish arm candy thief?

Kaitou paused; so did the footsteps.

_What have I done to Stigmarsson? Or the stranger? What have I done to make them come after me?_ Fear clawed his gut, but the rush of adrenaline, rather than clearing his head, only further disoriented him, made him feel floaty, unreal.

Dizzy and lightheaded, Kaitou dodged down a street, and ran.

The footsteps followed.

At once Kaitou knew he had made a terrible mistake. The air was stuffy, dank and foul, as though he had entered a sewage pipe. Glass from broken-out windows crunched underfoot. A few streetlamps flickered weakly.

At the far end of the block, headlights flashed past, hopeful beacons of civilization. He pelted for the cross-street.

The buildings crowding to either side seemed closed, to the point of abandonment: windows boarded up, overturned trash cans, loose bricks, cracked pavement. Even in daylight, this would be a bad place.

When being pursued, instinct says to flee. The right thing to do is hold your ground.

Fear had harried Kaitou into changing course in advance of his pursuer, and he realized the man had been goading him, herding him like a sheep, forcing him into the sort of neighborhood where no one would come to his aid.

Though the lighting was dim and the pavement perilous, Kaitou kept running. He risked a glance behind him.

The muffled figure was closer. His long shadow brushed Kaitou like a grasping claw.

Kaitou put on a desperate burst of speed, but he was no athlete. A painful stitch in his side brought him up short, then broken pavement tripped him up; he stumbled, careened off the side of a building, painfully cracked his knee.

The stalker was now only ten feet away and coming on.

Kaitou's injured knee precluded another run. The stranger was five feet away when he stopped, affording Kaitou a good look.

It was neither Stig nor the Silver Moon stranger.

Shorter than Kaitou, broader, in bulky tweed coat and a cap jammed low on his forehead, the stalker seemed to attempt disguise. But his outfit could not conceal everything.

The wide lipless mouth, flat nose, and slanting eyes were complimented by skin with an unpleasant, oily sheen. The lipless mouth opened. A long green tongue emerged.

Not oil. Slime. He was a frog.

Or mostly. The thug looked somewhat, but not quite, human, as if an ill-advised encounter between a substandard princess and a devilish frog had progressed beyond mere friendship.

Kaitou rifled his pockets for the spray bottle of Holy Water: _Like mace against demons,_ Hiei had said.

With this, Kaitou could blast the frog, burning him or otherwise quelling his powers, giving him enough time to escape.

Only one problem. It wasn't there. In the chaos of house-moving, Kaitou had misplaced it.

Frog-face flicked his tongue again, perhaps in search of flies, perhaps hinting that Kaitou was also on the menu.

Across the street, a cat emerged from a trash can, grasping a fish carcass in its jaws. It was not the dandelion cat.

As though the cat was a stage cue, Frog-face beckoned; in his fear and confusion, Kaitou took a step forward. The demon's hand had three fingers and a thumb, like those of a cartoon character, but there was nothing amusing in the way the fingers were tipped with sharp, curved claws.

The alley cat snarled, snapping Kaitou out of his trance. The cat, too, had unwelcome company. Several jaki: pint-sized demons often used by larger ones as messengers or spies. The small human-figured creatures darted at the cat in an attempt to promote themselves to some well-aged sashimi.

The jaki outnumbered the cat. Some jaki possess near-human intelligence, but cats are made of Swiss Army knives.

Kaitou was not. When Frog-face drew his other hand from his pocket, clutching a flattened red cylinder, Kaitou shrank back. Frog-face leered, displaying sharp yellow teeth. With a flick of his wrist, a lethal-looking knife snapped out of the cylinder.

_A 'shiv.' Read about it. Works on springs._

Alley cat and jaki froze, as if listening, then fled.

Their movement galvanized Kaitou. He turned clumsily, but his foot slipped on something, and he stumbled, bruised his other knee. Struggled to his feet. Pressed his back against the brick wall, panting. Fear and exhaustion had drained his strength.

"Perfect," said the mugger. His voice had a curiously thin, light timbre, reminding Kaitou of a movie monster seen long ago, whose childish speech belied his killer nature.

But this killer was silent as he made a great frog-leap toward Kaitou, red knife flashing.

0-0-0-0-0

_Peace on earth, mercy mild, however the old saw goes._

In a far nicer section of town, Hiroshi Ukyou relaxed in front of the fireplace. Granted, the fire was electric, operated by remote control, but it cast an acceptable glow, and the mantelpiece and surround were fashioned from the same impressive marble of a real fireplace: black with copper veins, imported from Carrera, or Siena, or some such.

A plush armchair cradled him, and a side table held all his needs: a book of Wilde's plays, silver box of cigarettes, cut-crystal decanter with matching tumbler full of amber whiskey.

Hiroshi did not in particular care for whiskey, but it was convenient, he was 21, and had a perfect right to drink. With the Heights all but disbanded and no newspaper to work on, what else was there to do?

_Senpai's ventures fail again._ "Anyone can sympathize with the sufferings of a friend," he told the table. "It requires a very fine nature to sympathize with a friend's success." _Perhaps I'll start my own publishing company._

Another long burning swallow emptied the glass; he studied its gemstone reflections, turning it over in his hand. Beautiful. But far too much trouble to get up and wash.

Sighing, he flung the heavy tumbler at the fireplace. It hit the copper-veined black marble with a satisfying crash.

Unfortunately, shards now littered both fireplace surround and carpet. _Botheration. Might cut a foot_.

But there was a solution, and he wouldn't even have to leave his chair. Hiroshi Ukyou raised his right forefinger.

At the movement of his finger, as though harking to the will of some unseen Svengali, the glass shards defied gravity. They rose in a group from carpet and marble alike, levitated, hung in the air like ice crystals. _Let it snow, let it snow._

An antique brass bucket stood beside the fireplace, where fireplace tools had once been kept. Hiroshi Ukyou waggled his forefinger; the shards hitch-hiked through the air like leisurely crystal moths.

With a downward flick of the finger, he let the pieces fall into the pail, already packed with broken glass, winking with a thousand promises.

The crystal decanter, now also empty of Suntory's finest, proved problematical. Heavy it was, too heavy to smash even against copper-veined black marble. It was heavy to levitate, requiring the use of Hiroshi Ukyou's entire right hand, not merely one finger, and all his concentration.

But levitate it he did, wobbling it toward the brass bucket, biting his lip. It took considerable effort to suspend it a foot above the bucket. He shut his eyes, but Hiroshi was breathing heavily by the time he snapped his left fingers and, with the power of his mind, clove the decanter in two.

0-0-0-0-0

The frog-demon sprang. As in a bad dream, Kaitou was frozen by fear, powerless to move.

The knife never struck. Someone was suddenly _there,_ standing like a shield between Kaitou and killer.

A familiar voice spoke, lazy and heavy and sullen: "Your opponent is me." A blur of movement, and the mugger was on the ground, and Hiei stood over him, his boot on the demon's neck.

"Hiei!" Kaitou sagged in relief. "How did you---?"

In black bomber jacket and black jeans, Hiei spoke not to Kaitou, but the squirming mugger. "Please. I'm begging. Give me a reason to kill you."

Kaitou blinked, pushed his eyeglasses up the bridge of his sweaty nose. His fear-frozen body thawed, returning sense to his sluggish mind. The mugger was now in custody, and no match for the lightning-fast powerhouse. "Hiei?"

"Because I really hate these stupid arrest scenarios," Hiei continued, as though Kaitou hadn't spoken.

"Lemme go, man!" The mugger's strangled yell earned him another dig of the boot. He flailed; the shiv flew from his hands to rest near Hiei's other boot.

"Oh, look, he's got a toy." Taking his boot from the creature's neck, Hiei stepped back. Frog-face rolled, grabbed the shiv, shot to his feet, battle-ready.

Hiei reached out and caught him by the wrist.

"Man, let go my---OW!"

"Have a little consideration for my feelings," said Hiei, as Frog-face struggled to free himself. "Don't you even care about the extra paperwork? The hours I'd spend filling out forms? You'll end up dead sooner or later. Your kind always does."

In reply, Frog-face slashed at Hiei's throat.

Still gripping the frog-demon's wrist, Hiei rather casually twirled him round and rammed him face-first into the brick wall. "Hey, Yuu." Hiei sounded bored. "Mind if I kill him now?"

There was nothing predatory now in the frog-demon's eyes; they rolled with terror. "Hiei," Kaitou began, uneasy.

Hiei shrugged. "If you're squeamish, don't watch."

"You're hurtin' me!" wheezed Frog-face.

"Really?" Hiei gave the pinioned arm a savage twist. Frog-face howled; the shiv fell from his other hand and clattered to the pavement. "Is this better?"

"Hold on a minute..." In spite of what Frog-face had done, Kaitou was taken aback by Hiei's brutality; this was no towering, armor-plated monster. "Look, he's just some street thug. That can't be a terribly happy life---"

"All the more reason to kill him," Hiei replied. "Remember, I got a license to kill."

Frog-face squealed and shut his eyes.

"Ease up on him," Kaitou urged.

"Why? He's third-rate demon scum."

"Even so!" Hiei's actions reminded Kaitou of a cat toying with its prey. "Doesn't he deserve a trial?"

"Sure. I'm judge, jury and executioner all in one. Besides, I want to see what color his blood is."

Kaitou was dumbfounded. "Whatever for?"

"What, you never get curious? Aren't you big on science?"

"This isn't science. It's nothing less than---"

"C'mon, tell me you never dissected a frog in school. Let me cut off a hand. One lousy hand. It'll probably grow back."

"Just run him in, for the love of----"

"Then he'll be out on the street again in no time. Better waste him. Maybe even ash him." With a wicked grin, Hiei summoned a small yellow flame in the palm of his free hand. The fire found its reflection in Frog-face's bulging eyes. "I'm testing a theory."

"Theory?" _All I want is for this to end well so I can go home, and Hiei's talking theory?_

Hiei sent a spark floating toward Frog-face. "I want to see whether these guys like fire as much as legend claims."

Frog-face rolled his eyes at Kaitou. "Mister, please!"

"That's salamanders, not frogs," Kaitou interjected. "And it's not true!"

Frog-face agreed. "Listen to him, man, please!"

Hiei was relentless. "Same dif, they're both amphibians." The spark fluttered toward the hem of Frog-face's coat.

"Hiei," Kaitou said, "come on, don't do this!"

Hiei's exasperation came through loud and clear. "You won't let me cut him, now I can't ash him?"

Nevertheless the match-head of flame settled on the coat, smoldered orange, conjured the acrid aroma of burning wool.

Frog-face shrieked, "Put it out putitout putitout!"

"Why?" Hiei snorted. "No report, no paperwork." Then, looking around, as if seeing the neighborhood for the first time, he asked Kaitou, "What the hell were you doing here anyway?"

"Long story," Kaitou said.

"I got time."

The damp night and heavy wool coat meant Frog-face might not go up like a bonfire. Still. "Put out that fire first?"

"What, so this bastard can bolt? No way. He wants the fire out, he can drip slime on it himself."

The coat continued to smolder. Kaitou saw that the frog-demon was shaking. "Doesn't even a thug like him deserve mercy?"

"What for?"

"Because the rule of law---oh, skip it." Intending to put out the fire himself, Kaitou reached for the coat.

Hiei flashed him a warning look. "And don't YOU try."

"Dude!" Frog-face protested, "I just wanted his wallet!"

"Sure," replied Hiei. "You say that _now_."

Kaitou took a deep breath. He was exhausted, and it was difficult to think straight. He had known Hiei five years. They spoke often and at length on diverse subjects. Hiei seemed amiable enough. Kaitou had come to see him as a warrior, not a murderer. Not someone with such callous disregard for life, or such reckless bloodlust.

Perhaps Kaitou's mistake was in thinking Hiei 'tame.' Now he found himself forced into the uncomfortable role of the mugger's advocate. "Let him go," Kaitou said.

"And have him stick someone else?"

"So take his shiv. It's right on the pavement."

"Nag, nag, nag. You sound just like my idiot woman: 'You can't _interrogate_ perps if you kill them first!'

Kaitou studied the terrified mugger, still pinned to the wall, blood decorating his flat nose from where Hiei had forcefully introduced it to the bricks. "She's right."

"Yeah, she's right," Frog-face echoed.

"So why not call the cops?" said Kaitou.

"Cops?" Hiei shook his head. "Imagine their surprise when they get a load of this creep."

"Then _you_ take him in."

"I haven't killed anyone in days. I need the practice."

"I say arrest him," Kaitou repeated.

"I say listen to Four-Eyes!" the mugger squeaked.

"Oh, it's on now." Hiei gave the pinioned arm another jerk; Frog-face yelped in pain. "You can't insult my friend like that and get away with it."

"I d-didn't mean no disrespect!"

"Hiei, please," Kaitou interjected. "Don't go nuts on me. Just call for backup and let them haul him away."

"As soon as I have him in pieces."

Frog-face let out a moan, and not merely because his coat was still on fire.

"Hiei, come on." Kaitou held out his hands. "If you like, I'll make the call."

"Forget it. I'm going to be covered in warts."

"Frogs can't give you warts," said Kaitou automatically. "That's toads, and it's an old wives' tale."

"Tale or no, it's more than this bastard's life is worth. Besides, I've been in a bad mood lately."

Frog-face rolled white-rimmed eyes at Kaitou.

"Come on, Hiei." Kaitou searched for a lever to pry open Hiei's spirit of mercy. What did Hiei value? "Think of all the times I bought lunch."

Hiei brightened. "Hey, I could go for some now."

"It's on me." Kaitou found himself silently pleading with Hiei to relent. "What do you say?"

"I say I've never tried frog sashimi." Hiei looked Frog-face up and down as though deciding which part to sample first.

"Dude," sputtered Frog-face. "No way, please, just---!"

"I don't think you'd care for it," Kaitou said hastily.

"Hey, I'm helping him die with dignity."

Kaitou blinked. _Who is this guy anyway? The Hiei of game arcades and bad movie nights---or is that a pose, and this sadist the real thing? Maybe first impressions are true after all. When Hiei slaughtered that beast in the park, I tagged him a killer._ "Let Koenma do his job," Kaitou urged.

"The Brat-King's overworked as it is. He'll thank me."

Frog-face squeezed his eyes shut. A fat tear rolled down his slimy cheek. He slumped, appeared to give up, appeared to be awaiting execution. The sight moved Kaitou to further pity.

"Just run him in, okay?" Kaitou asked. "As a favor to me?"

The coat smoldered. Far off, a horn blared.

"Please?" Kaitou repeated.

"Well," Hiei gave a long sigh. "Maybe just this once."

Opening his eyes, Frog-face cast Kaitou a grateful look. "You are a prince among humans."

"Killjoy," muttered Hiei.

0-0-0-0-0

Frog-face was gone. A ferry girl named Ayame, tall and dignified, had come to take him to Koenma for arraignment.

It was, Hiei explained, a Felony One for a demon without a Green Card to wander the human realm. As for attempted mugging, not to mention assault with deadly weapon...

Additional arm-twisting on Hiei's part had loosened Frog-face's tongue. He admitted to a penchant for cutting his victims. This sort of habit was frowned upon by _Reikai._

Still shaky, Kaitou was in want of an atmosphere that did not reek of frog and worse, trying to assess whether he'd taken any damage beyond bruised knees. Hiei had called a cab, but none would come to this neighborhood.

Kaitou headed north toward the cross-street. He badly wanted to go home, his real home, not the empty new apartment. But Mother would take one look at him and realize something was wrong. He refused to drag his parents into this mess, refused to endanger them that way.

"Oh, hey, Yuu." Hiei fell into step beside him. "Forgot to mention. You're dead."

"Every cloud has its silver lining."

"You should've cast your Territory."

"We've been through this." Kaitou scraped the sole of his shoe along the pavement in a vain attempt to clean it of whatever foul substance had soiled it in the first place.

"And what the hell did you step in?" Hiei sniffed the air, pulled a face.

"It wasn't roses." The damp night pressed close, reminding Kaitou that he had worked up a sweat and now had a chill. Relief, gratitude, unease, and scorn warred within him. Once again Hiei had gotten between Kaitou and danger. Once again Kaitou had frozen at a critical moment.

Hiei broke in on Kaitou's thoughts, in a distinctly admiring tone. "Well done, though."

"Well done?" Kaitou stopped, puzzled. "I don't follow."

"I let Froggy loose, and my reputation's shot. This way it seems like you talked me into going easy on him."

"Huh?"

"The way you picked up on my cues!" Hiei's eyes glinted with enthusiasm. "I've never seen anyone play Good Cop to my Bad Cop so seamlessly without a single practice run."

Kaitou gaped at Hiei, appalled. There were a thousand things he wanted to blurt at that moment, none of them kind. In the end he rejected them all. "I wasn't playing," he said, then, stalked off toward the main road.

0-0-0-0-0

The Millennium had arrived, and the world was still turning.

A month after his attempted mugging by a frog-demon, Kaitou Yuu had not only a new apartment, but a new paper.

On a bright afternoon in January, he paused in his writing to take a well-deserved break, padded to the kitchen in stocking feet. Though he'd had to jettison the shoes he wore the night of Frog-face's attack, his knees no longer hurt with each step.

The kitchen was separated from the living room by a counter that provided seating for casual diners, the only sort Kaitou could presently accommodate. A bank loan took care of both paper and apartment, but not furnishings.

As for the paper, _The Weekly Roundup_ had been acquired from a former colleague at _the Kyodo Daily_. It contained more generic material than Kaitou would have seen fit to include: soft news, restaurant reviews, and a Best Bargains section, in addition to his usual analysis of the arts and literature.

For whatever reason, Kaitou's name on the masthead had boosted circulation. Best of all, _The Roundup's_ office was located in the coveted Mango Building on Shoto Street. Another view from on high, another goal achieved.

_So why am I not happy?_

Kaitou opened a kitchen cabinet, took out a box of teabags, then glanced back at the cavernous living space.

The old red sideboard, green wicker armchair and worn desk from _Scene and Sequel_ seemed at odds with the sparkling chrome-and-glass coffee table and black leather sectional left by the previous tenants. The contrast between old and shabby, new and sleek, spoke of discord, set Kaitou on edge in some subtle way. The place deserved better than this mismatch, and he wanted it to look just right.

A mug received both tap water and the teabag, then went in the microwave. Mother would be horrified at these short-cuts. Perhaps Kaitou was not as self-sufficient as he liked to think.

The living room alone was probably larger than the Kaitou's entire apartment. Down the hall lay bedrooms and baths. Such a space could easily house a married couple, even with a little boy. Even if the boy was not his own.

Sliding glass doors led to a balcony overlooking _Youyougi Kouen,_ ensuring that Kaitou could see the park at night. The view helped relieve his sense of confinement; he had abandoned walking the streets at night.

As the mug revolved in the microwave, his thoughts spun with it, recalling the past few years. _Am I in over my head? Too much empty space, too many new responsibilities, too many loose ends?_ He thought about the monster in the park. The dandelion cat. Frog-Face. Stig Stigmarsson. The Silver Moon stranger. _Something's happening here. Some pattern, some menace I can't yet put my finger on._

The microwave dinged, snapping Kaitou out of his uneasy reverie. He brought the steaming mug back to his desk, adjacent to the sliding doors. Though the desk still faced a wall, there was now a vista to compete for his attention.

Leaving the tea to cool, Kaitou went to gaze upon this vista, as if by looking, he might scrape up the courage to ask Miss Michiko the crucial question.

He glanced at the phone in the kitchen. Maybe he should call her. Maybe she would call him. Maybe he would lose himself again in daydreaming, safe in his own home.

Sliding the doors open, Kaitou let a cool breeze caress his face. Clouds laced the powder-blue sky. In acquiring both newspaper and apartment, he had attained many of his goals. The year 2000 might prove a turning point in more ways than one.

And it was good to get a reprieve from Hiei telling him every five minutes how dead he was.

_Time is what I need. Time to figure out my next move. Time and solitude._

Kaitou was savoring this solitude when a black missile hurtled through the open doors, almost grazing his shoulder. It landed with a crash that shook the floor.

"KYAAAA!" Kaitou leapt backward, just as his brain resolved the black missile into a heap of rags, then the familiar form of Hiei in his mantle, struggling to rise.

_Not again!_

Hiei glanced up at Kaitou. "Did I come at a bad time?"

"C-can't you use the door like normal people?" Kaitou's heart had not yet caught up to his brain, was trying to slam its way past his rib cage.

Hiei lurched to his feet, clumsy for once, skin grayish and beaded with sweat. As he worked to toe off his shoes, his sword clattered to the floor.

"You all right?" Concern overrode Kaitou's annoyance. "What happened?"

"Landed funny," Hiei gasped. "Usually...call Kurama but ...."

Hiei's eyes rolled up. He toppled, lay boneless and still on the hardwood floor.

Leaving the fallen demon, Kaitou dashed to the kitchen and grabbed the phone.

(To be continued: What's wrong with Hiei?)

-30-


	8. A Friend In Need

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon, C8: A Friend In Need

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: K/PG-13

Summary: Not even a locked door can keep danger at bay.

A/N: Character sketches--this time, it's Kurama!--viewable on my LJ homepage, linked in my f-net profile. As always, thank you for reading this, and I appreciate your reviews!

"I am not a cow!"

The Book of Cat With Moon (C8: A Friend In Need)

by

Kenshin

Though it shamed him to admit it, every now and then Kaitou Yuu still felt a quiver of dread regarding Minamino Shuuichi.

Catapulted back to Yojigen Mansion, knowing Minamino had already dispatched broom-haired Yanagisawa, was hidden among thick leaves to defeat Kaitou and capture his soul---

---one moment, you stand tense in a steamy room with monstrous, reeking plants pressing in on all sides, scratching your exposed flesh, tugging your clothes. The next, you lie flat on your back in a different room altogether, people peering anxiously down at you. Un-nerving, this dislocation. Embarrassed, yet relieved, you have returned from that undiscovered country without memoir---but not by your own power.

Minamino Shuuichi, quick of wit, quick of hand. Known to certain friends as Kurama. Gentle of voice and demeanor.

Utterly ruthless.

That steel-plated glint in Minamino's eyes when he thought Kaitou was the enemy, that gentle voice taking on a razor's edge: "If you harm my friends, I will kill you."

Kaitou glanced uneasily at the living room. He had certainly not caused Hiei's injury, yet there Hiei lay, a heap of black and white rags, a marionette with strings cut, his very appearance an accusation.

Kaitou realized his hand still gripped the phone long after he'd ended the call. Releasing the phone, he left the kitchen to peer at Hiei. Undoubtedly Hiei still possessed his soul, but his right arm was twisted at a painful-looking angle.

Blotting his lip with the back of one hand, Kaitou thought about first aid. Keep the victim warm? He glanced around for a throw, but something else was amiss, some miasma slinking through the room. A breeze stirred the curtains, dispelling whatever it was. _Blanket, where's a blanket?_

The doorbell rang. Kaitou hurried to respond.

Minamino had arrived in record time. When Kaitou opened the door, Minamino kicked off his shoes. A breath of outdoors air followed him in. A leather knapsack trailed from one hand; his jacket trailed carelessly over one shoulder as though he had rushed out of a meeting. He spotted Hiei. "What's he done this time?" Stalking to Hiei's side, Minamino knelt and went to work.

Sounding defensive even to his own ears, Kaitou followed. "I didn't like to move him. He's been injured."

"Evidently." Speaking through clenched teeth, Minamino knelt, palpating Hiei's torso. When he touched the right shoulder, Hiei stirred, but did not awaken.

"Shouldn't we put him on a bed or something?"

"The floor's more than good enough for the likes of him."

"I heard that," murmured Hiei, eyes still closed.

"Excellent," said Minamino. "Proves there's nothing wrong with your worthless ears."

Hiei tried to struggle onto his uninjured elbow, but Minamino shoved him back down. "Sit."

"What am I, a dog?" protested Hiei.

"No. Dogs are loyal. And appealing. What did you do?"

"Landed funny."

"On your Dragon arm. Don't you hate when that happens."

"At least it's not my cannonballs."

"You know what you can do with those."

"With two oni on top of me, and one of those big things with teeny wings coming in at an angle and---"

_Aannd they're off_, Kaitou thought. "Two oni and another low-level demon?" he interrupted. "In broad daylight? And they got the better of you?"

"_Three_ oni and a Touron, stalking a group of schoolgirls." Hiei, still ghastly pale, nevertheless managed a grin. "Almost a shame to kill 'em."

"Why let shame stop you?" Kaitou said under his breath.

"They were scared snotless," Hiei elaborated. "Some sort of idiot gang initiation."

Minamino pulled his bag closer. "Charming."

"I initiated 'em straight into the afterlife."

"And got a dislocated shoulder as a reward for being civic-minded." Minamino reached into his knapsack, pulled out a small vial, squinted at it, shook his head, then returned it to the depths of the bag. "You're lucky not to have compound fractures in the arm and shoulder combined. You're lucky I don't Rosewhip you into hamburger."

"Hamburger," Hiei informed him with great dignity, "comes from a cow."

Minamino favored Hiei with a thorny glance. "A cow displays far greater intelligence."

"Guys," Kaitou protested faintly.

"I was in _class,_" Minamino went on. "Do you imagine I'm at your beck and call?"

"I didn't call," Hiei retorted. "Blame Kaitou."

Kaitou again blotted his lip.

Minamino paid Kaitou no attention. "And that I have no life outside of sewing you up?"

Hiei's eyes widened. "You actually brought needle and thread?"

"Or that my lifelong dream is to become your personal physician?"

"I hear the pay is good."

"It had better be," said Minamino, "considering a handful of D-class nonentities did you in."

"My foot slipped," Hiei explained.

"Your foot never slips."

"Must have been a banana peel."

Minamino sniffed. "Judging by the aroma I'd say it was something far less palatable, and those demons had more than the snot scared out of them."

"Go ahead," grumbled Hiei. "Mock a dying man."

"Don't think I can't make that happen."

"If you two are finished...?" Kaitou put in.

Minamino didn't glance his way. "Not quite."

"Should his color be that bad?" Kaitou inquired.

"No." Minamino divested Hiei of his mantle. "A dislocated shoulder? Hiei would laugh at it, then dig ditches. Something else is wrong, but I can't properly assess what." Hiei wore a gray tank top underneath. Most of his right shoulder had turned an ugly shade of purple-black.

Then Minamino gave Kaitou a measuring look. "You're big enough. Pin Hiei down while I snap his shoulder back in place. It will hurt and he will dislike it. Lean on him with your full weight. I'm relatively certain he won't bite you."

"Heh-heh," said Kaitou, kneeling next to Hiei.

"I only bite those who deserve it," protested Hiei. Grabbing Hiei's right arm above the elbow, Minamino nodded to Kaitou, who placed both hands wherever there wasn't purple, and bore down to steady the fire demon.

"Now, you careless little nuisance." Addressing Hiei, Minamino bared his teeth in a feral grin, his eyes alight with unholy glee. "Turn your head and cough."

A snorting laugh bubbled up from Hiei. Minamino yanked the arm. Kaitou felt it all the way from his end. There was a crunch, a snap, then Hiei's breath caught and he went limp again.

Was it normal to faint dead away, Kaitou wondered, merely from the re-setting of a dislocated joint? Hiei, who could make sashimi out of demons ten times his own size?

Minamino was already on his feet, shaking out his hands. "You might want to get those shoes away from him."

Kaitou gingerly pushed the soiled shoes near sword and mantle. "Couldn't you have given him something for the pain?"

"I could," Minamino replied. "That's if you'd enjoy having him throw up all over your apartment for the next six hours."

"Not really."

"Hiei's violently allergic to every sort of pain killer," Minamino explained. "Except certain topical applications." Lifting Hiei, he then carried him to Kaitou's couch. "I should just drop him off the balcony instead."

On contact with the couch, Hiei opened his eyes. "Ahhh," he sighed. "Shoulder's back in place."

Minamino produced a metal tube, opened the cap, and squeezed a dab of clear gel onto his hand. It had a sharp, herbal scent, almost like rosemary. Smearing the gel onto Hiei's shoulder, Minamino sat back and watched. The gel shone for a moment, then sank in, fading the worst of the bruise as if by magic.

A roll of tape appeared in Minamino's hands. He began, with savage precision, to tear off six-inch lengths of the tape and brick-lay them onto Hiei's injured shoulder.

Hiei watched, his expression almost comically worried. "That'll hurt coming off."

"I sincerely hope so," purred Minamino. Kaitou sincerely hoped the two of them would not come to blows.

Minamino twirled the roll of tape, then pocketed it as a gunslinger holsters his weapon. "If you mess up my handiwork any time soon," he warned Hiei, "I'll break off your arm and club you to death with it."

"It's a deal." Hiei groped with his good hand toward his pocket, but neither hand nor pocket was cooperating. "Phone?"

Minamino snaked a hand into the pocket, yanked out the phone, slammed it into Hiei's palm. Hiei thumbed a button on the phone. "Hi," he crooned. "Got the job done." He paused, taking an audible breath. "And a dislocated shoulder." He listened in silence for a minute, wincing. "At Kaitou's," he said at length. "Yeah, Kurama's here, too."

"If that's Shay-san," Kaitou began, "she's welcome to---"

"We won't be inconveniencing you much longer," Minamino interrupted, his voice like a new-forged glacier.

"Maybe twenty minutes," Hiei said into the phone. He grunted, listened, murmured a good-bye, then settled back.

"Not so fast," hissed Minamino, launching a torrent of English so rapid that even Kaitou couldn't understand, but he was fairly sure none was in the form of glowing praise.

When at last Minamino ran out of breath, he straightened, fixed a limpid gaze on Kaitou, then inquired in the politest strata of speech whether he might avail himself of the bathroom.

"Please do." When Minamino was out of sight, Kaitou angled his head at Hiei. "Is he always this---?"

"Worse." Hiei waved a dismissive hand. "It's when he doesn't give me crap that I know I'm on death's doorstep."

"If that's how he treats his friends, " Kaitou muttered, "I hate to see what he does to...."

He already knew what Minamino did to enemies.

"This is just a dislocated shoulder," Hiei went on. "It hurts, but by tomorrow, next day---try not to be jealous."

"I'll bear up somehow."

Minamino emerged from the bathroom, looking notably less disheveled. He strode to the couch, shouldered the knapsack, then raised an eyebrow at Hiei. "I phoned a cab. Ready?"

Hiei got unsteadily to his feet.

Kaitou did not assist, but plucked Hiei's mantle off the floor. He was reluctant to touch either shoes or sword.

"I've got that." Minamino hurried to pick up the sword, but Kaitou noticed he did not retrieve the shoes.

_Leave the dirty work to me._ Annoyed, he fetched a plastic garbage bag from the kitchen, plus another to protect his hand. As he gingerly slipped the soiled shoes into the bag, he noticed not only muck from the accursed shoes, but blood staining the hardwood floor in a crimson splatter.

He toted the bagged shoes to Hiei, who accepted them with nary a thank-you.

Pausing at the door, Minamino looked around the apartment, as if seeing it for the first time. "Impressive," he said, nodding in approval.

Once, that approval would have meant something.

Then they were gone, leaving Kaitou to clean up. The tea he'd placed on his desk earlier was cold, and he no longer wanted it. At the old sideboard, he found and lit a stick of incense, which only added to the air a different form of pungency, and made him sneeze.

Feeling somewhat dazed, and more than a little bit used, Kaitou pondered the best means of removing bloodstains.

0-0-0-0-0

Kaitou had finished cleaning at last, and was already in a high dudgeon when the doorbell rang again. Fully prepared to see either Minamino, who might have accidentally left behind some poisonous lotion, or Hiei, having neglected to inform him he was dead, he yanked open the door.

It was neither. Hiroshi Ukyou raised a a supremely bored eyebrow, followed by a champagne bottle tucked into a golden gift bag. "You called for an emergency housewarming?" He sniffed. "Judging from the atmosphere, I'm not a moment too soon."

"Come in, please." Kaitou struggled to mask his bewilderment; Hiroshi never visited _anyone_.

But Hiroshi acted as though visiting was an everyday event. He wore a camel's hair blazer over khaki slacks, with a navy tie loose at the neck of his crisp white shirt. His oxblood loafers already lay in the genkan. "Is that some trendy new home fragrance, _senpai?_?"

"Don't get me started." Kaitou had lit a second stick of incense---apparently to no avail.

"Interesting." Handing Kaitou the bag, Hiroshi strolled inside. Sniffing again, he tilted his head. "Ah, the stench of failure---perhaps the has-been recently departed the premises."

_Uncanny,_ Kaitou thought, then laughed to cover his embarrassment. "Perfect excuse to tie one on." He waved the champagne, but Hiroshi shook his head.

"Afraid the smell's put me quite off, _senpai._" Hiroshi settled on the wicker chair, well away from the black couch.

Flushing, Kaitou went to the kitchen. No champagne flutes. A secondhand tumbler would have to do, as would a yellow plastic bucket for ice.

He worked the cork free of the bottle with no fanfare, then poured himself a generous drink. Ice and champagne both went into the plastic bucket. He set it all on a plastic tray, then carted it to the coffee table. "Sure you don't want some? The glasses are clean at least."

Hiroshi again declined, but accepted an ash tray. He leaned back, lazily blowing smoke that drifted to the incense burner and writhed like the coils of a ghost-snake.

While Kaitou rolled his office chair near the coffee table to better appreciate the champagne, Hiroshi studied the oddly-furnished apartment. "Can't be easy," Hiroshi said at last, "putting up with all this."

"Amen." Wondering what exactly 'all this' meant, Kaitou lifted the glass to his lips. Bubbles rose, burst, tickled his nose. Gulping it down before it made him sneeze again, he pondered his first taste of champagne, he who had only ever drunk a beer or two. It seemed yeasty, tannic. Pouring another, Kaitou studied the great boiling strands of bubbles. They danced a rhythm, a pattern. _My name: superior rising sea._ An underlying bitterness tainted the starry brew.

How easily Kaitou had forgotten Hiei's true nature. _And I made him free of my home_.

Back in his Everyman's Burden days, Kaitou had attempted to topple Hiei, as the fictional Ellsworth M. Toohey had done to countless others. _Proves I'm just a failed Toohey. Hiei's bigger than ever: voice acting, commercial work, product endorsements_. Kaitou lifted the bottle, sought Hiroshi's gaze. "Going, going, gone?"

"Oh no, dear _senpai_. What are presents for? Though perhaps next time I shall bring an air filter."

Kaitou laughed, almost snorting bubbles up his nose. _Good old Hiroshi. Upright capital. What the hell. Not going anywhere. Don't even have a license, much less a car. Hiei has both. License to kill. Damned show-off._ Kaitou poured another gusher of champagne. "Then here's to the view."

"You seem to enjoy a view. Always up on the office roof." Hiroshi added, "Uneasy lies the hand that holds the glass."

_What, no Wilde?_ "You should've been here an hour ago." Kaitou swilled another drink. "Uneasy doesn't even begin to----" But then, with a shock that even the champagne could not smooth over, Kaitou knew he had been on the verge of revealing Hiei's true nature. This line he must never cross, even with Hiroshi.

"Ignoring old friends," murmured Kaitou. "No 'scuse." He poured another tumbler of champagne.

Hiroshi did not reply, but stared at the tumbler, even raising both hands as though conducting an orchestra, but he let them drop at once.

Thinking of orchestras reminded Kaitou of music. He giggled something about failed boy bands.

They spent the rest of the afternoon happily abusing the current crop of films, television shows, and has-been pop stars.

By the time Hiroshi left, Kaitou had killed the bottle of champagne, and earned himself a pounding headache, which he sullenly chalked up to Hiei's earlier intrusion.

0-0-0-0-0

One week later, Kaitou's headache had gone, and he had gained a treasured gift.

Now leery of alcohol, Kaitou toasted the gift with a can of Water Salad, a popular soft drink. This version was lightly carbonated, cucumber-based, refreshing. As he sipped the juice, his gaze returned to the silver candy dish that now graced his old red sideboard.

Drawing the late afternoon light to itself, the dish bounced it back to the ceiling in a shimmering halo. Boxy yet charming, it resembled a wrapped Christmas present, with the handle of the silver lid fashioned as a bow. It was a housewarming present from Miss Michiko, who had dropped by last night. If she had expressed dismay, even horror, regarding the mongrel state of his home, Kaitou could then have hinted the place needed 'a woman's touch,' but she hadn't given him that opening.

Kaitou had received another gift as well: no Hiei the entire week. Perhaps Rome had sent Hiei off on some remote and dangerous mission. There was always hope.

Though Hiei was absent, certain aromas lingered, tainting Kaitou's sanctuary with the stench of all demonkind.

Never mind that. Look at the pretty candy dish. Kaitou crossed the room, traced the outline of its bow; the silver felt cool, like ice of such strength and purity it could never break.

Its very essence made Kaitou vow to return to his roots, to revive old friendships, old habits, even the Heights.

_The Weekly Roundup_ was doing well, better than expected, possibly too well. Soon he might be able to buy a new sideboard, buy some champagne flutes, what the hell, even buy more champagne to toast the future with Miss Michiko.

As for the black leather couch, maybe he would pitch it out the window.

Prying himself away from the candy dish, Kaitou carried his juice toward the desk, sipping as he went. Maybe the acrid undertone was imaginary. And though any lingering stink was now also in Kaitou's imagination, he lit another stick of incense, then scurried back to the desk before his Water Salad took on the flavor of incense as well.

The balcony door was open. A breeze fluttered the curtains. Kaitou glanced up, half-expecting Hiei to rocket through them.

_Stay away. Everyone but Miss Michiko, that is. I have work to do, a paper to run, a career to save, but how can I with people bleeding all over my floor?_

Bent over a legal tablet, Kaitou began the first draft of his editorial. _What was my subject matter again? Shall I extol the virtues of air filters and incense? Declare black leather sofas passe? Focus. The subject was roses. No, that can't be right. Ah. Undeserved Fame---that was it._

For a time, there was only the soothing hiss of nib on paper, and the occasional gulp of juice. When Kaitou next glanced up, the sky matched the black Hero pen he gripped. The pen Hiei had given him.

Laying the pen aside, he shook his cramped writing hand. Maybe it was time to publish Hiroshi Ukyou's work after all. Turn him loose on the demon pop star.

"You're dead."

Shooting to his feet, Kaitou whirled.

Wrapped again in his black mantle, muffled in that white scarf, enigmatic of face, Hiei loomed so close to Kaitou's chair he could have tipped it over. Kaitou's heart thundered painfully against his ribs. "Don't DO that!"

"Why not? I forgot, last time."

"As if you ever forget anything." His heart slowing to a mere gallop, Kaitou shot Hiei a withering glance.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

_The stranger you lied about?_ "Nothing. Nothing at all. How the hell did you get in?"

Hiei's color still wasn't good, and as he crossed to the balcony he moved with stiffness, and the sight of him galled Kaitou like a steel wool splinter under the skin.

"Hey, Yuu. Deadbolt your door at night."

"It's my door. I'll do what I please with it."

"Anyone can get in. It's a door."

"You're not my mother."

"_I_ got in."

"You're a freak of nature even among demonkind."

"And I'm not even at a hundred percent," continued Hiei, oblivious to Kaitou's mood. Turning away, he roamed the apartment. His manner stropped Kaitou's nerves to a razor edge.

"When are you ever a hundred percent?" Kaitou glanced at the Hero pen. _'Befitting the man who owns it,' Hiei said. Back then I thought it was a joke. But is that what he's been doing all along, playing the hero so he can look good? To what purpose? Something to do with the stranger? What possible gain could there be for him?_

Kaitou had never asked for any of this. He had never asked for _youkai_ buddies, never asked an Ability to be dumped on him like a bucket of cold slop, then warned to never use it. He had not asked to join the battle against Sensui.

But that battle was finished. Yana and the others were not constantly popping up on his doorstep. Nor were Yuusuke, Kuwabara, even Minamino. They were not constantly telling Kaitou how dead he was.

Sniffing at the incense, poking at the ash tray, Hiei played the role of private detective, played to the last row, played it broad and bad. _What's he after now?_

And then, Hiei found the silver candy dish.

Kaitou tensed. Miss Michiko had even supplied the dish with foil-wrapped chocolates. Kaitou had not eaten a single one.

Hiei lifted the lid. Removed a piece of chocolate.

Kaitou spoke through gritted teeth. "Put. That. Down."

Hiei froze, the chocolate halfway to his mouth. He replaced it, then studied Kaitou, his expression bland. "Hey, Yuu. Interested in entomology much?"

That brought him up short. "Huh?"

"Because maybe you can identify exactly what species of bug is it that just crawled up your---"

"Shut up. And I have a name."

"Yes," said Hiei. "I employ it often."

"That's not what I meant. 'Hey, YOU?' It's an insult."

"It's a pun."

"You wouldn't know a pun if it knocked you cold."

"I've been knocked cold. Right on this very---"

"How could I forget? The stink won't let me." Hiei had gotten the drop on Kaitou yet again, and he'd had quite enough of that, thank you very much. He had a right to react. He had a right to mention the smell, however imaginary. He had a right to remain silent.

Though their friendship spanned years, just now, everything about Hiei was an irritant. _How dare you presume on my hospitality? How dare you touch that candy dish? How dare you lie about strangers?_ " In fact," Kaitou began, then stopped.

He did not want to lash out. He just wanted his life back.

He proceeded as though Hiei was not there, hoping he would catch the drift. Deliberately refusing the Hero pen, Kaitou snatched a pencil, tried to retrace his thoughts. What was it again, dung and dragons? Wasn't that some new card game? Ellsworth Toohey, stand aside.

For a while Kaitou's pencil-scratching filled the room. Then came the almost inaudible click of the doorknob. Kaitou turned to see the flash of Hiei's black mantle, disappearing through the door as it shut behind him.

Silently toasting Hiei's departure with the dregs of vegetable juice, Kaitou savored his well-earned solitude, and went back to work.

Or he tried. It was no good. The flapping curtains disturbed him, thrumming out a sinister tune. Laying the pencil down, he sat with narrowed eyes.

Suppose the Sensui battle was not in fact finished?

Doctor and Sniper were still at large. The demon Itsuki could return. One of the fallen could have a vengeful relative. Or a henchman like Stig Stigmarsson, or the stranger---

He glanced at the Hero pen, then dropped it in a drawer.

As he shut the drawer, the fluttering curtains again drew his attention, insistent as a warning flag.

_I'm not just imagining this._

Something was in the air. Something combining both speed and stealth was pursuing him like a runaway train, streaking through the scenery, obscured by the underbrush of the mundane---just as Minamino had been hidden by the leaves in Yojigen Mansion.

Kaitou could not name the origin of his peril. He might not understand its nature, but glimpse it only when it was too late, when he heard the shriek of its whistle, when he turned wide-eyed, about to be cut in twain under its churning wheels that could neither be dodged nor arrested.

Worse, he had the nagging sense that he himself had unknowingly thrown the switch and set it all in motion.

His throat felt like sand. He reached for the Water Salad, but the container was already empty.

(To be continued: Are all dreams doomed to dust and ash?)

-30-


	9. Up on the Roof

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon C9: Up On The Roof

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: K +/PG-13

Summary: Kaitou Yuu looks forward to a happy future, but a single slip-up puts it all in jeaopardy.

A/N: As always, thank you for reading this, thank you for faving this, and please do review!

_Why can't I move?_

The Book of Cat With Moon (C9: Up On The Roof)

by

Kenshin

The office of _The Weekly Roundup_, though located in the coveted Mango Building, was about the size of a broom closet. Kaitou Yuu was already sick of it.

_Is this what happens when you attain your dreams?_ he wondered. _They turn to dust and ash?_

While the new apartment was also the fulfillment of a dream, Kaitou missed his parents. It was lonely at the top.

And crowded. Kaitou's massive rolltop desk almost blocked the office door, but it would fit no other wall. Good thing Hiroshi Ukyou had left early; there wasn't enough oxygen for two.

There was, however, space for a manila folder filled with the week's submissions. Kaitou was doubly sick of those.

Ellsworth Toohey never had to deal with a slushpile. Tapdancing on skulls was his stairway to the top. But then Toohey eventually plummeted to the bottom, felled by hubris. Kaitou thought he might almost prefer that fate to sifting through the typed equivalent of root canal surgery.

Yet something nagged him, some deed left undone, some urgency. He was bright, he was a brain, no one would deny it, but he was also overbooked and forgetful.

Today marked the one-week anniversary of Kaitou's last encounter with Hiei. Forgetting to celebrate that event wasn't the urgency, though the reek of dung was so firmly entrenched in Kaitou's resentful mind that he smelt it even in the office.

Far better to think about Miss Michiko. Those forest-pool eyes, glimmering behind enormous, round lenses, that cute little bob of a hairstyle, that---

_Miss Michiko!_ Kaitou glanced at his watch. _I'm meeting her at the Silver Moon._ He raised his eyes to lock gazes with St. Francis de Sales, who regarded him from the desk's top ledge.

It was not the actual patron saint of writers, of course, but merely a tiny icon, painted with muted primary colors on a parchment background. The saint's rotund, bearded countenance seemed unusually stern this evening. One hand was raised in benediction; the other cupped a plume of yellow and orange that, seen one way, was a dove---another, flames.

Flames. All too reminiscent of Hiei, who had given Kaitou the icon in the first place. Propping up the icon was a spray bottle of Holy Water.

Kaitou turned the image to the wall, replaced the bottle, and began sifting submissions, knowing that Hiroshi always sneaked in his own essays. He grimaced. _Oh, go ahead. Publish him, just this once. That'll tank the paper_.

He found Hiroshi's work and skimmed it, then stopped in disbelief. Removing his eyeglasses to rub his eyes, he read it a second time, but it still said the same thing.

Rather than Hiroshi's usual pedantics on Spring or Beauty, it was a word-for-word plagarism of Oscar Wilde's _The Ballad of Reading Gaol:_ 'Yet each man kills the thing he loves---The coward does it with a kiss; the brave man with a sword---'

Kaitou dropped the papers on his desk. What on earth was this? A joke?

He considered Hiroshi's dress: neat one day, slovenly the next. Maybe it was a sign, not of eccentricity, but utter dissolution. Kaitou had been too wrapped up in his own problems to pay attention. Now, it sounded a nagging alarm.

_What do I really know about him? Brittle, caustic wit, maybe a facade. But everyone hides secrets. Everyone has fears._

Sliding his glasses back on, he set the remaining the slush aside. Time for some answers.

Kaitou was no newsman, but he knew how to do research. The single shared computer lay atop a low file cabinet opposite the desk, and could only be operated from a standing position. Uncomfortable, but good enough to look up public records.

There was little to discover about Hiroshi senior, who had been employed by a small electronics firm. His 1994 obituary did not list a cause of death. Of the mother, Kaitou found nothing. There was more about Hiroshi's aunt, who had been an antiques purveyor of some renown. No cause of death listed for her either, though that was not uncommon. Families liked to keep such details private.

Kaitou glanced at his watch, then back at the the computer screen. It was Friday. Further research could wait.

Sighing, he stretched, trying to work out the kinks in his body. What he really needed was a walk, but not in this postage-stamp office. Leaving it behind, Kaitou took the elevator to the top floor. At the end of the hall, he mounted a short flight of steps, then opened the door to the roof: his view from on high.

Light had drained into evening's sinkhole, and the frigid air reminded Kaitou he'd left his overcoat in the office.

In contrast to his office, the roof seemed big as a soccer field, yet it was only twenty feet to the edge. And dark. Kaitou navigated mainly by the sound of his footsteps chuffing as he paced, keeping close to the known territory of the door.

Then both corner lights switched on.

Each light consisted of a ten-foot metal pole with a glass fixture mounted crosswise, like the eyes of a hammerhead shark. Kaitou edged toward the reflected gleam of the safety rail.

Chill fingers of wind stroked his hair forward. He brushed it impatiently back. He was always meaning to get it trimmed to a shorter, less outmoded style than his pompadour, but there was never time enough.

A full moon punched its pale circle through the ultramarine sky. _Silver Moon, Silver Moon,_ he thought, _wait for me; I'll be there soon. Gaah. Maybe I should write greeting card twaddle._

The railing was not much of a barrier, less than hip-height, and it was fifteen stories down to street level. Fear was not so bad. Fear kept you from kissing cobras or falling off rooftops.

Behind him, the door opened, then closed again. As Kaitou turned toward the sound, someone spoke.

"_Senpai?_" Hiroshi Ukyou leaned against the door, quizzical, arms folded, an inch of cigarette dangling from his lips.

Kaitou crossed the roof to meet him. "Thought you'd left."

Hiroshi spat out the cigarette butt. If he had gone home, it was not to change clothes. He wore the same wrinkled navy blazer as this morning, and what had probably once been a pink linen shirt, now stained and half-tucked. A soiled burgundy tie flapped at his throat, and he needed a shave.

He stuck a fresh cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lit it, letting it bob as he spoke. "Me? Surely not, even during these halcyon days. But you---" He broke off, narrowing his eyes at Kaitou, a shrewd, searching look.

"Me what?"

Brushing past Kaitou, Hiroshi strolled across the rooftop until he reached the safety rail.

A shiver that had nothing to do with air temperature puckered Kaitou's flesh. He could not see Hiroshi's face, but he was bent too far over the rail.

_Please tell me he's not going to jump._ "Hey." Kaitou spoke with false cheer. "How about a little chat?"

"Oh?" Hiroshi shot the words over his shoulder. "You've time now? Not too busy holding the has-been's hand?"

"Forget the has-been. This is about you."

"Yes, so I'd gathered. The great Kaitou Yuu descends from the heights to gaze upon his lowly minion. That was a pun, you know. Speaking of heights, this seems perfect."

With a graceful, startling leap, Hiroshi landed atop the safety rail, teetered, then steadied himself.

Standing near the door, Kaitou could not hope to catch Hiroshi. The rail, polished metal bars no thicker than a broom handle, seemed made for pitching people headlong to the pavement.

Faced with talking down a suicidal friend or a date with Miss Michiko, Kaitou chose the former. "Something's wrong."

Wobbling precariously, Hiroshi said, "Amazing powers of deduction there, _senpai_."

_Has Hiroshi become a drunk right under my nose? Is he drunk now? Was that why he wouldn't touch that champagne---didn't want me seeing him sloshed?_ "You okay?"

Still teetering, Hiroshi spread his arms like a high-diver. Kaitou's heart rose into his throat.

Hiroshi held the pose; Kaitou held his tongue. He feared that any word he uttered could have the force of a sledgehammer, could knock his fragile friend right over the edge.

Far below, traffic growled and grumbled, ticking off the seconds. At last, Hiroshi lowered his arms, and took a hop backward to land safely on the roof. Kaitou's heart slid down to its rightful place and resumed knocking against his ribs.

"Me okay?" Hiroshi still studied the rail. "Excellent question, short, to the point. I think you know the answer."

_Thanks for the heart attack._ "Then how about---"

"Alas. No man is ever rich enough to buy back his past."

"And you're not Wilde, any more than I'm Toohey."

"I've no idea what that means." Turning, but still hugging the rail, Hiroshi gazed at Kaitou. His rumpled, melancholy demeanor seemed a silent plea for help. "Good of you to take notice, though."

"I've taken notice before. Trust me on that."

Hiroshi sighed wearily. "I suspected as much."

Now it was Kaitou's turn to voice puzzlement.

"To lose one's parents may been seen as tragedy. To lose both _and_ an aunt begins to look like carelessness."

Another Wilde quote. Two men who rose, then fell: Oscar Wilde, Ellsworth Toohey. One real, one fictional, and Hiroshi's obssession with Wilde stood in the way of genuine communication. "You can drop the act now," Kaitou said.

"You _have_ been a clever little detective, _senpai._"

Kaitou struggled for patience. If he could get Hiroshi to come home with him, he could also persuade him to accept help. "Look, why don't we cut to the chase? What say we---"

"So you force me to spell it out for you. What a merry game of cat and mouse! You've been delving into my background."

"Someone had to." Was the sore spot Hiroshi's lackluster grades? He'd quit school after his father's death, but until this evening Kaitou had assumed it was merely because Hiroshi would never have to work for a living.

_Back then, at Meiou Academy, I had my sights set on Minamino, wanting to surpass him, if only once_. But Minamino did not excel to taunt Kaitou; he excelled because of who he was. Maybe that was why Hiroshi always called Kaitou _senpai_---senior, an honorific, a sign of respect. Kaitou thought he understood Hiroshi now; saddened yet relieved, he spoke gently: "You were trying to catch up to me all along?"

Hiroshi tilted his head, puzzled. "Not at all, _senpai."_

Then what? Why was Hiroshi up here playing word games and dancing with the rail? "In any case, come away from---"

"Oh, I see!" Understanding widened Hiroshi's eyes. "You thought I had come to cast myself down in despair?" Sauntering a few paces forward, he said, "I assure you that is not the case."

Kaitou breathed out in relief. "It's hardly your style, anyway." He must tread a careful line now in both speech and manner. While he had no wish to appear callous, bleeding compassion would surely backfire on a man who worshipped at the altar of Wilde. He resisted glancing at his watch. Hiroshi seemed edgy, but that was nothing new. _Maybe he doesn't need a girl. Maybe he likes being alone._

"Have no fear, _senpai._" Hiroshi sketched a salute in the air. "The pavement and I shall not intersect."

Kaitou slumped in relief. _I'll have to mention that Reading Gaol plagarism at some point. But not just now. At least he's not going to jump. Maybe the rest can wait._ "See that it doesn't. And if you're sure about that---"

"I am indeed."

"Sorry, but I do have to be somewhere."

"Have you? Then by all means make haste."

Kaitou turned to the door. Its small pane of glass showed his wind-tossed reflection. Was there time to get to a washroom and make himself presentable? He reached for the doorknob. "Maybe tomorrow we can---"

An explosion chopped off Kaitou's words. The window in front of his face shattered as if struck by a bullet.

0-0-0-0-0

_The blue glow of the television draws him. Frightened yet fascinated, Kaitou creeps down the hallway to the living room until he can peer around the corner, careful not to alert his parents. He is in luck; though they face the TV, Mother and Father do not see him. Mother folds socks in a basket; Father leafs through the paper; neither seems involved in the movie. _

_But Kaitou is riveted. Eyes wide, he watches the Creature From the Black Lagoon. _

_Against its backdrop of lush Amazon jungle, the reptilian man-beast swivels its head, spots Kaitou, an impossibility. Kaitou tries to draw back, but fear nails him to the spot._

_Something about this seems hauntingly familiar._

_The Creature tramples through dense foliage, gills working, claws outstretched, lumbering on until it commits another impossibility and walks out of the television altogether. _

_Mom and Dad continue folding and leafing. Clumsy in the living room, the Creature knocks over a lamp with a crash of breaking glass; then reaches Kaitou, slashing his face._

0-0-0-0-0

Swimming up from cobalt depths of dreams and illusions, Kaitou at first sensed only pain.

Unable to tell up from down, night from day, he did not know what had happened. _Have I lost my soul? No. I can smell the moon. Wait, that's not right either._

The sound of distant bells, low and sonorous at first, like the bells at Immaculate Heart Church. Raising pitch and speed, they zoomed close, insectile, like the jangling of a phone.

The sound faded. Kaitou realized it was not bells, but merely the ringing of his own ears. He had blacked out when...

When the glass in the door had exploded outward. Maybe disfiguring him, blinding him.

He blinked, and discovered with relief that he was not blind. But his vision was oddly distorted, a kaleidoscope of cracked images. He blinked again.

He lay on his left side, asphalt black and oily-smelling against his cheek. Shards of broken glass glittered the roof like frost. Heat-lightnings of pain crackled across his face and forearms where he had suffered numerous cuts.

His glasses had shattered. His eyes stung with a viscous, salty liquid. Blood. The thickness of the lenses had probably saved his sight.

"Oh, dear." Hiroshi regarded him from across the roof. Kaitou tried to call out, to warn him that someone might be stalking them, might have shot out the window.

Unaware of danger, Hiroshi strolled forward, shoes crunching glass, until he stood a few feet from Kaitou. "It appears I've left the job half-done."

The taste of blood was coppery on Kaitou's tongue.

"My mother was far more powerful," Hiroshi went on, "or so I was told. I barely remember her. But I've spent some time perfecting this attack."

Peeling his face from the asphalt, Kaitou pushed up on his left elbow. A sharp pain stabbed that arm.

"Oh, I could have gone on for years, blissful years in quite the same way." With a blade of a smile, Hiroshi flung down his cigarette and crushed it underfoot. "But you had to spoil it. You had to delve. And left the computer on to get my attention. Now let me show you where you and I differ, though you have already guessed."

"G-guessed?"

Hiroshi raised both eyebrows. "Don't tell me you didn't realize, _senpai?_ You, the great Kaitou? Even playing detective, you had not put the final links into the chain?"

At a certain angle, through the spiderweb of Kaitou's broken lenses, Hiroshi looked disjointed, a patchwork creature.

"A man cannot be too careful in his choice of enemies." Hiroshi raised an eloquent hand. Pieces of glass trembled like leaves agitated by wind. Slowly they levitated, as though his hands were magnets summoning steel. This was nothing normal, no human conjuring trick. Continuing to defy gravity, glass shards hovered around Hiroshi at shoulder-height.

Kaitou blinked. "You have an Ability...?"

Hiroshi's hands dropped to his sides; glass pattered to the rooftop. "Ability? But of course. Having inherited dear Mater's blood, I also received some measure of her talents."

Mother. Talents.

"Oh, just look at your face. Don't tell me I've tipped my hand, jumped the gun, let the _hanyou_ out of the bag?"

Kaitou had to be somewhere. Not on a glass-spattered rooftop, but somewhere. _Hanyou._ "Half-demon? You?"

"Goodness, the way you put it!"

As Hiroshi's declaration sank in, a degree of clarity returned to Kaitou's thoughts, allowing him to recall the bottle of Holy Water on his desk. 'Like Mace against demons,' Hiei had said. Out of his reach now, useless. "You're serious?"

Hiroshi shrugged. "Sorry, my mistake. I thought you had discovered my little secret. But finish the job I must."

Kaitou stared up at the once-familiar figure.

"Don't look at me like that. I assure you I've done this twice before. It gets easier each time."

"The police---"

"They're fools, or they'd have caught me before now."

_But we were friends,_ Kaitou thought. _Through school and beyond, through success and failure._ "We were friends."

"Oh, we are!" Hiroshi even allowed his lip to tremble, but stopped before it cost him the cigarette. "And I'm fond of you, really I am, _senpai._ But would you deny me my natural gifts?"

_That broken cup, on my desk, back then---Hiroshi's doing?_ Shivering, sticky with his own blood, Kaitou sat up. "You won't g-get away---"

"Please." With an airy wave, Hiroshi said, "Don't give it a second thought. I shall be long gone before it's discovered."

"B-but---"

"No, really. With my money, I can go anywhere, even buy myself an island. Poor Kaitou Yuu, he is no more. Such a great talent, cut down in the third flush of youth." Giggling at his own borrowed witticism, Hiroshi Ukyou indicated the scattered glass. "Now these lowly shards, I'm rather proud of them. I can unite my aura with them, move them any way I choose."

Kaitou desperately cast his gaze about. No shelter, no escape but the door. He hitched backward, scraping himself over asphalt until the cold metal door pressed against his flesh. Even those inches of movement felt as though someone had poured battery acid into his wounds, then bound them with barbed wire. He broke out in a sweat. The wind licked it away with eager, abrasive tongue, draining his strength.

But a deeper cold burrowed into his core: betrayal; and something else. A thing that gnawed the edges of mind and gut both, some essential truth, eluding him.

He would deal with that later, if there was a later. Dizzy, gritting his teeth, Kaitou braced his hands against the door, slowly levered himself to his feet. Another whip-crack of pain nearly dropped him again, yet his fingers sought the doorknob. "You murdered two people."

Hiroshi looked as though he had caught a whiff of something rotten. "Murder is such a dreadful word, _senpai._ Quite judgmental in fact, and rather hurtful. No, I would hardly call it so. The first time was by accident. I was merely testing my powers. Poor Pater surely never knew what hit him."

Kaitou fumbled for the doorknob. There would be people in the top-floor offices who would hear his cry for help.

"But imagine my situation. Aunt Sachiko the Velvet Dragon. Insufferable since Pater's demise, really. She was pacing the living room one day, as always, and I simply had enough, could not even breathe with her there. What choice did I have?"

_Oh, I don't know---_ Kaitou shifted to disguise his actions with the door. _Go into another room?_

"I can see it even now. The curtains drawn. They were always drawn, _senpai_. Always. The Velvet Dragon wringing those sorrowful sanctimonious hands, pacing, pacing. Past that enormous vase. Bone-thin by then. The vase dwarfed her. It could have toppled by itself, but it needed coaxing. So on her next pass---BAM. Oh, you'd have done the same. Anyone would."

The cuts along his forearms had made Kaitou's hands slippery with blood, and his fingers were cold, clumsy. He could not work the doorknob. But he could imagine Sachiko, a lady given an insulting nickname, a lady his mother's age, crumpled on the floor, shards of porcelain slashing, slashing. He shut his eyes, overwhelmed with pity, his wounds united to hers.

"Oh, come, _senpai,_ admit it. You've wanted people out of your hair. The lesser lights clinging to your reflected glory."

"Maybe." Outrage lent him strength; he stood a little straighter. "But not the way _you_ mean it."

"Ah, that's better. Face death like a man." Hiroshi took time to slect and light another cigarette. He inhaled a leisurely puff, then let ribbons of smoke trickle from his nostrils. For a moment, he looked like a dragon himself, though hardly of velvet. "Farewell."

Then he drew himself up, assuming the role of revered conductor before an eager audience. He waved both hands, commanding music to begin. The orchestra of glass quivered. Like living creatures, they rose. Surrounding Hiroshi in a deadly halo, catching light from the hammerhead fixtures, they winked like diamond daggers, too many to count.

Hiroshi waited until his victim's full attention was focused on him. Then, punching both hands forward, he sent a multitude of razor shards hurtling toward Kaitou Yuu.

(To be Continued: Flying glass, vulnerable flesh.)

-30-


	10. The Territory of Fear

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon C10: The Territory of Fear

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: K +/PG-13

Summary: Under the moonlight, blood looks black.

A/N: As always, thank you for reading this, and I appreciate your reviews!

The only thing worse than Injustice is Justice without a sword.

The Book of Cat With Moon (C10: The Territory of Fear)

by

Kenshin

Diamond daggers flew toward Kaitou's face with the speed of a runaway train, promising pain, blindness, the death of a thousand cuts.

Glued to the door like a rabbit frozen before an onrushing train, Kaitou could do no more than flinch.

But the blow never came.

There was a thickening in the air before him, a blackness blacker than the night. Where there had been nothing, a flying shadow was simply _there,_ standing between Kaitou and Hiroshi, his black mantle, sword and scarf glinting under the moon. He blocked the hit, scored a ringing chime as shards met steel.

"Your opponent is me." The familiar voice spoke, lazy and sullen, as though the speaker had just been dragged out into the cold from a deep, comfortable sleep.

He did not acknowledge Kaitou, did not glance back at him nor inquire as to his general health, but Hiei had never been a more welcome sight.

Not to Hiroshi Ukyou. His mouth twisted, as if he had bitten into a sour lemon, and he snarled at Hiei, "Where the hell did _you_ come from?"

"Tokyo."

Hiroshi was far from amused. "How did you get that sword?"

"It's the latest craze. All the boy bands have them."

"If you think for one minute that-"

Hiei cut Hiroshi off with a flourish of his katana. "Hello. My name is Hiei, and I'll be your ass-kicker tonight."

In spite of everything, Kaitou's lips twitched. Hiei's appearance heartened him, suffused him with strength. He pulled himself up a little straighter.

It would be all right. Hiei sounded more annoyed than anything. He would deal with Hiroshi, and they could call Minamino to treat Kaitou's wounds. It would be all right.

As the fighters squared off, a calculated stream of cigarette smoke veiled Hiroshi's features. He took a few moments to consider this new element. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to crash a private party?"

"Countless times, but I forgot to give a damm."

Hiroshi clenched both fists, arms stiff at his sides. "Get out of my way!"

His back to Kaitou, standing only a couple of feet in front of him, Hiei didn't budge. "There is one thing worse than injustice, and that is Justice, without a sword in hand."

"Very clever. Did you make that up all by yourself?"

"It's Wilde." Hiei swept the air with his sword in a whistling figure-eight, then snapped it into a guarding position. "If you're going to ape someone, at least get it right."

"How dare you-!" With his cigarette strewing ash like dirty snowflakes, Hiroshi went on the offensive. He jerked both hands upward, and countless glass shards rose like a squadron of airborne bullets. _Flick._ Opening his fingers, he hurled them in a wide fan, impossible for one person to block or deflect.

But Hiei was ready with countermeasures. His sword summoned a round blue dome of crackling energy, shielding both Kaitou and himself. The shield's essence thrummed, raised gooseflesh on the back of Kaitou's neck. Glass skived off the shield, then pattered harmless to the ground.

Hiroshi nodded, giving credit to his opponent. "It appears that you're more than just the garden-variety pop failure. What manner of stage effect was that?"

Hiei lowered his sword. The shield dissipated. He approached Hiroshi with his leisurely gait. "The real question is, can I let you live?"

Kaitou was struck speechless. Hiroshi was no match for Hiei. He was half-human, not some rogue monster in the park. _Don't toy with him like you did Frog-Face!_

"Looks like the has-been is smarter than you." Hiroshi addressed Kaitou, but he was glaring at Hiei.

Hiei shrugged. "I've had my eye on you a while now."

"Oh?" With one hand to his chest, Hiroshi assumed a look of pure schoolboy innocence. "Is it a crime to be half-demon?"

"Hell no," Hiei replied. "But Murder One is."

"There's that distasteful word again." Hiroshi took his hand from his chest, turned it palm-up, gave it a jerk. Scattered shards from the rooftop quivered, then leapt in the air. He flicked his wrist. Glass flew at Hiei.

Hiei swung his sword to block. A katana weighs perhaps five pounds, but in the midst of that action, Hiei's legs shook as though he held a much greater weight.

Even as the crackling blue shield formed around his sword, Hiei staggered. The shield vanished with a fizzing snap; glass hit his shoulder, ripping fabric and flesh alike.

_Tap, tap, tap._ The drip of Hiei's blood on asphalt.

Hiroshi smiled. "You were saying?"

Kaitou's relief vanished. It was true that battle-hardened Hiei could materialize anywhere and clock anyone before the target's nerve endings even registered pain-

But not today. Only a week ago Hiei had crashed unconscious to Kaitou's floor. Minamino said he had suffered more damage than just a dislocated shoulder.

As though he realized his window of opportunity was squeezing shut with each passing second, Hiei wasted no time in debate. "Enough fun for now." Sword-first, he charged.

"Again?" Hiroshi inquired. "Your type never learns." With evident relish, he hurled glass daggers at Hiei.

Hiei parried. Sword rang against shard-but for every deflection, Hiroshi merely swept his hands about, a puppet master in control of destiny.

This did not bode well. Slumping against the door, Kaitou braced his legs, but his feet hit a puddle of blood and he crashed to one knee.

There had not been this much blood before.

Mirroring Kaitou, Hiei also staggered back, went down on one knee. But even from that position he battled on, the sword singing, chewing glass to dust.

Something struck Kaitou's brow. He flinched-but there was no pain. Again, this time striking his cheek, his chin.

Raindrops. Fat, heavy raindrops, splatting against his face. The water revived him, washed clean his mind, washed away blood in a welcome bath. Thunder rumbled softly, as though the sky cleared its throat.

Kaitou understood now. He had thought Hiroshi needed help. But while he stood gazing at the moon, Hiroshi had returned to the office, had seen Kaitou's research on the computer. Having drawn the wrong conclusion, Hiroshi raced to the roof and attacked Kaitou while his back was turned.

Kaitou had reacted with fuzzy-headed shock and disbelief. But the time for disbelief had gone.

Shutting his eyes, Kaitou strove to throw that internal 'switch,' that would activate his Territory where no violence could take place. Hiei might not be able to defeat Hiroshi without killing him, but he carried a phone. He could call the police, call Minamino, call the Coast Guard for all Kaitou cared.

Trembling with effort, Kaitou strove to initialize his Territory. His muscled quivered. Sweat welled on his upper lip.

He could not do it. No familiar sensation of flipping that switch, of power going out from him, of a stabbing headache. He'd lost too much blood, waited too long.

He opened his eyes. It was all up to Hiei now. Kaitou could do nothing but watch the rain-silvered battle unfold.

His back to Kaitou, shaking but game, Hiei still guarded him against attack. _Why doesn't he use fire,_ Kaitou wondered. _Fire melts glass._

Thunder boomed. The rain could no longer be felt as individual drops. Flint scented the air.

Pressed close to the railing, Hiroshi regarded Hiei with utter loathing.

Hiei took no notice of either frown or rain, indicating the glass he had just reduced to sodden sand. "You're out of ammo."

"And you're out of breath." Flicking a glance to the side, Hiroshi chuckled. Gleaming in the rain, a glass-rich sentinel in the shape of a hammerhead shark stood at each corner of the roof. With a snap of his fingers, Hiroshi broke the heavy fixture to the left.

The protective glass surrounding the bulb shattered with a hollow clang. The bulb inside it shattered as well, sputtering orange sparks before dying down to darkness.

The January thunderstorm already seemed supernatural; now it was as though a zeppelin filled with water had burst overhead.

"Rain? That can't stop me!" Hiroshi's hands danced. Shards the size of vampire bats flew up behind him. He flung out his fingers, and the batlike weapons swooped at Hiei, seeking blood. They found it, tearing from Hiei a stifled grunt.

_Why doesn't he use his fire? Because of the rain? Can't just lie here!_ Kaitou forced himself to his feet.

"You see?" Raising a sardonic eyebrow, Hiroshi drawled, "All I need do is stand here calmly and cut you to shreds, while you splash about huffing and puffing."

And Hiei _was_ gasping for air. Turning his head, he spat blood. "Is that all you've got?" he taunted.

"Not in the least. But you, alas, are clearly overmatched."

"I wouldn't be overmatched against the likes of you three days after my death."

"Excellent image. Quite inspirational in fact."

Inching to the side, Kaitou glanced covertly at Hiroshi. _If I can distract him, give Hiei an opening-_

"Stay where you are!" Hiroshi's eyes flashed; he flicked a single finger. A switchblade shard struck the meat of Kaitou's right thigh six inches above the knee.

Thunder masked his cry of pain. Rain hissed like a nest of demon snakes.

Wearily, knowing it was futile, again Kaitou strove to cast his Territory. Cursing himself for failing to react sooner, he struggled until his teeth rattled and his tongue clove to the roof of his sour, sticky mouth.

Hiroshi glanced at the second light-pole. "Just what I needed. How thoughtful of the architects." He snapped his fingers; the fixture yielded a jagged hunk of inch-thick glass the size of a cafeteria tray. A hand-flick hurled it toward Hiei, head-height. Hiei saw it coming, swung, connected-but the impact cracked his sword in two. The tip of the sword spiraled away and clanged to the roof, raising a spray of water.

The second bulb went out. Ghost-blue light from the surrounding city painted the combatants with an eerie glow.

"Glass?" Hiei's voice curdled with disdain. "That's it? Just glass? Even with half a sword I can take you." Ignoring danger, ignoring the rain, Hiei simply ran Hiroshi down.

Hiroshi had his back pressed close to the safety rail. How ironic if he should misjudge the distance, topple backward, fall to his death.

For a searing, shame-blistered moment, Kaitou hungered for it: _Die! Save us the trouble and die!_

The sight of Hiei's charge must have given Hiroshi considerable pause. Gone was the look of arch boredom. His eyes bulged with fear. As Hiei splashed closer, Kaitou's former classmate skittered sideways like a crab along the polished metal rail, graceless in his terror.

Hiei remained in hard pursuit, slashing the air with his broken sword, ten feet away, five, two. Each step struck water-sparks from the roof.

It would be over soon, but Kaitou could not look away.

Hiei a sword's-length from victory. Hiroshi bared his teeth in a leer, twisted aside, spooled along the rail in a swift pirouette.

The roof was greasy from rain. Carried forward by sheer momentum, Hiei slammed into the safety rail.

Lightning clawed the sky, illuminating the scene with awful clarity. Hiroshi sent a hunk of glass flying at Hiei's back. The heavy fixture struck, pitching Hiei forward, lifting his feet from the ground. Simultaneously, by the same remote control, Hiroshi rammed another piece into the back of Hiei's head with a sickening crack.

The slick metal rail acted as an axis, and the heavy one-two punch of glass did the rest. One moment Hiei was there. The next, gone, off the roof.

Then there was only Hiroshi, laughing, and the sky spitting rain.

To Kaitou's reeling mind, he was at fault, had conjured Hiei's fall by wishing the same fate upon Hiroshi, and now fate had twisted his wish and sent the wrong man to his death.

Giggling, Hiroshi backed away from the edge. It was a laugh filled with schoolboy glee. The high, shrill sound sent worms of ice crawling through Kaitou's bones.

"Is that all it took?" Tucking in the trailing hem of his shirt, straightening his tie, Hiroshi strolled toward Kaitou, stopping some ten feet away, blue-washed against the backdrop of night.

"Thus perishes the has-been and his trick sword. Too easy by half."

Blood shining black against black in the moonlight, robbing color from objects. Shining liquid, a sacrificial altar, Hiei's blood. His own.

Lightning lashed the sky again, but could not return color to the world.

Hiroshi grinned. "Here you thought I was wasting my time up on that rail before, but you see, I was strategizing. And rather brilliantly, too."

Teeth ratcheting, icy with the shock of what had just occurred, Kaitou knew his time was short.

The rain let up, setting the stage for what was to come. _Not an Ability, but a demonic power. How fate works, pitting me against Hiroshi. Kidou's Shadow might work against him, maybe Yana's Copy. My Taboo? I squandered the chance._

Somewhere along the line, Hiroshi had lost his cigarette. Without his usual prop, he looked almost naked. He strolled toward Kaitou. "As for you, dear _senpai,_ it's regrettable, but if I remain on this rooftop, then the idiot police might catch on. After all, a body just hit the pavement, even if it is in an alley. Someone's bound to notice. No, I shan't linger. Rather I'll be on my way. But first..."

Hiroshi Ukyou, brittle of wit, casual of air. _Will he be able to sleep at night with four murders on his conscience?_

Kaitou wondered at such detachment, when moments ago he had been thirsting for Hiroshi's blood. A feeling of pity for Hiroshi in the midst of fear must mean he was unraveling, nearing his end.

The loss of blood had created in him not only a bitter cold, but a raging thirst. The rain was gone now, too late to ease his thirst, another irony. He would find it difficult to speak.

Words were all he had, words were how he made his living, but words failed him. Unable to defend himself, too late to save Hiei, too late for anything but one final gesture, Kaitou forced speech from his raw throat. "And what about you?"

"Eh?" Hiroshi seemed surprised by the question. "What do you mean, _about_ me?"

The blue radiance bathing Hiroshi was similar to the glow cast by an old television set. In such an eerie light, the child Kaitou had been was trapped between fascination and fear, harried by imagination, watching monster movies.

_We believe television to be harmless, yet the details of such fodder permeate both mind and spirit, terrorize us as though they had shape and form in the real world. _

Kaitou's imagination had spun out of control about Hiei, ascribing monstrous properties and motives to the fire demon.

Now here came Hiroshi. If Kaitou were not so close to death, he could have persuaded himself that this figure was not his executioner, but mere electrons, having temporarily escaped from the prison of the glass screen.

Hiroshi's gleaming eyes, the faint sheen of water on his face, reminded Kaitou that here was no 'off' switch. Licking his parchment lips, Kaitou mustered the strength for another volley. "Can you live with yourself?"

"Oh, most assuredly," Hiroshi said. "I've plenty of money, so you need not give it a second thought."

"Don't do this," Kaitou pleaded. But he was used up; his words a dry hiss of sand.

Clenching a fist, Hiroshi studied the ground, as though battling within himself.

Perhaps he was. A mist of hope rose in Kaitou. Perhaps Hiroshi would see his mistake, would throw himself on the mercy of the law. Or perhaps he would simply abandon his folly, turn and quit the rooftop, confident that Kaitou had lost enough blood to die on his own.

And then if Kaitou could crawl downstairs into the hall and pray that someone remained inside one of the top-floor offices- the police would come sooner or later. Someone would see Hiei smashed on the pavement and call.

Hiroshi did not take long to deliberate. He did not leave the roof. Instead, a sliver of glass like a dragonfly rose and came to Hiroshi's summons, then hovered at his shoulder.

Dragonflies. Order, Odonata, sub-order Epiprocta. Spectacular, jewel-chromed flyers found near bodies of water. Harmless to mankind. Great hunters of insects. I Japan, symbols for courage, happiness, strength. As far gone as he was, Kaitou could reel off their characteristics.

But this dragonfly was not of nature's design. With a languid backhand gesture, Hiroshi flung it at Kaitou. Flying like the real thing, it slammed into Kaitou's left arm just below the shoulder as he turned to present less of a target.

_Starburst of pain. Too weak to cry out._

Hiroshi seemed to be enjoying himself in an almost elfish, playful manner. He extended a beckoning index finger. The glass dragonfly ripped free of Kaitou's arm in an arc of black blood. It turned in the air, clumsier than a dragonfly, flew quivering and jerking, until it stopped near Hiroshi's shoulder.

Hiroshi cocked his head. "I'm waiting." His voice was light and carefree.

_Waiting for what? Can't see his face. Can't see much. Dark going darker._ But he could still hear. Hiroshi's voice floated over the rooftop: "Any last words?"

_False dragonfly waits. Hiei has plunged to his doom. Silver moon sees all._

His own doom lay at hand in the guise of a former friend wielding a sliver of animated glass. Yet Kaitou's life did not flash before his eyes.

To his surprise, he saw rather, in separate, shutter-frozen incidents, illuminated as though by lightning-

Hiei. Back in the park, popping up on the streets, putting himself between Kaitou and the frog demon, all this time, all with a single message: _You're dead, Kaitou_.

(To be continued: "Better make your peace while you can.")

-30-


	11. C11: You're Dead!

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon C11: "You're dead!"

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: K/PG-13

Summary: Alone, wounded, Kaitou Yuu faces his doom-but the enemy plans something far worse.

A/N: As always, I thank you for reading this, and I appreciate your reviews!

"Care to write your own epitaph?"

The Book Of Cat With Moon (C11: "You're Dead!")

by

Kenshin

_You're dead, Kaitou_.

Kaitou Yuu braced his back against the door.

If not for the door's solidity, he would have fallen.

Across the roof, seen through Kaitou's cracked lenses, a distorted Hiroshi Ukyou watched in brooding silence. The glass dragonfly hovered at his shoulder.

Kaitou almost wanted him to get on with it, to launch the final attack. Anything was better than this limbo.

_Hiei-tough as he is-gone. I'm next._

Then he thought that Hiei might not have died on impact.

Was Hiei even now lying in agony on the pavement, aware but unable to move, listening for the approach of death?

Kaitou barely had time to frame the thought when Hiroshi flicked a casual finger. The glass dragonfly flew, struck Kaitou's right shoulder, yanked itself free again. Kaitou's throat constricted in pain; he could not even cry out.

The dragonfly returned to its master. A drop of blood clung quivering to its needle-pointed 'head.' "Good little dragonfly." Hiroshi bared his teeth in a schoolboy smile. "I shall keep you as a souvenir."

Curling his right hand, Hiroshi gathered a dozen more wicked shards. "Lovely, aren't they? Enjoy the sight. It's the last you will savor in this world."

Kaitou's eyes watered. He blinked it away.

A soft rain began again, the sky weeping along with Kaitou. The moon rode clear and cold above it all.

"Farewell!" Hiroshi clenched both fists. Then, opening them as though flicking dust from his fingers, he hurled the glass straight for Kaitou's eyes.

With no resources or strength left, sunk deep in despair, Kaitou could not even turn away.

But at the last instant, with an outward sweep of both hands, Hiroshi diverted the shards. They slammed against the door to either side of Kaitou's head, splintering on impact.

"At least cry out!" This time Hiroshi's bared teeth resembled nothing in the way of a smile. He strove to calm himself, straightening both jacket and tie, raking a hand through his hair. "Your stupidity has robbed me of the life I should have had! At least give me the satisfaction of-" He broke off, struggling to arrange his features into their familiar mask of _ennui,_ finally succeeding.

"Plead with me, can't you?" Hiroshi spoke again as the arch, bored sophisticate. "I would enjoy that. Poor dear Pater never had a chance, of course, never knew what hit him. The Velvet Dragon knew, all right, oh, she knew what was happening and who had orchestrated it!"

He wiped his mouth as though spittle had formed. "But she denied me to the last, the ruthless bitch. A pity. She pleaded, of course, but not for herself. Can you imagine? For me to seek help. As though I were sub-normal, when indeed I am super-normal. Or would that be supra-normal? You'd know the correct word, wouldn't you, _senpai?_"

As Hiroshi went on, Kaitou struggled to find an icon of courage. A song popped into his head, an older song from a nearly-forgotten artist. _Seen one way, innocent. Seen another, blasphemous. I don't know why I thought that just now-Lott Wingard and her spooky lyrics. _

_Courage. Think of someone to protect._

And then of course he did.

Miss Michiko.

Pressed against the door, Kaitou stared with frosty contempt at Hiroshi Ukyou.

Perhaps the half-demon had run out of patience. Perhaps battling Hiei had drained him. For whatever reason, Hiroshi's world-weary composure kept slipping away. "Stop looking at me like that!"

_He wants something,_ Kaitou thought. _To hear me beg-or something more? I may be reduced to just this, but if not giving in is all I have-_

"Come, _senpai_." With jerky movements, Hiroshi extracted another cigarette, touched a lighter to its tip, and pulled smoke deep into his lungs. "I'm giving you the chance to write your own epitaph!" Each exhalation rode on dragon-curls of smoke.

Defiant, Kaitou held the other man's gaze. His legs were not as valiant; they shook like jelly, and he again slid to the wet asphalt.

But in falling, he had cleared a pathway, had changed the angle of his perspective. He could now see what had been hidden from view when he'd been standing on his own two feet.

Behind Hiroshi, perched on the safety railing, was the cat.

_The_ cat. The cat of the park.

Extraordinarily, viewed through the spiderweb of Kaitou's cracked lenses, the cat appeared whole, perfect.

Dandelion-thick gray fur, untouched by rain. Copper eyes in a flattish face. Undoubtedly a Persian. It looked down at him, its piercing gaze locked onto his, aware, intent.

Hiroshi was oblivious to the animal's presence. He stood panting, obscuring the air with his rage.

Still the cat watched Kaitou.

Hiroshi was saying something. Kaitou was not listening.

The cat looked almost as if it was smiling: eyes slowly slitting, the corners of its mouth curling up.

A faint, eerie music threaded the air. No. Not eerie: ethereal. Otherworldly. Silvered chords rising and falling like a dance of the sea.

**Dreamlike, yet not a dream, the cat's footfalls struck separate, shutter-frozen images of itself, of the park, a series of photos, blanching color from the world, dazzling Kaitou with black and white clarity.**

_**Flash, flash, flash,**_** the cat came on.**

Kaitou could smell bruised grass beneath the cat's long-ago paw-tread, a scent like liquid emeralds, refreshing him. The scent was real, past intruding on present, time turned fluid.

Here was something to grasp.

_This is no mere cat._

Hiroshi's lips stopped moving. He raised his head, sniffing the air, puzzled, but did not turn.

This cat-back then in the park. With its animal instincts, wiser than Kaitou, it had trotted up to Hiei, demonstrating that Hiei meant no harm.

What was this cat? Guardian or vision? Mascot or magic? Seeking an icon of courage, Kaitou had found it in the form of an animal clad with dandelion fur.

When an insistent, petulant voice claimed his attention, Kaitou glanced at the source: Hiroshi, his lips moving; words pouring out.

Kaitou looked back at the railing. The cat was gone.

"Oh no, my dear _senpai,_" Hiroshi was saying. "No! There can be no further delay! This pumpkin-carving must take place at once. Oh, yes, a bloated little jack-o-lantern are you, filled with self-importance!"

"Wrong... time... of year," Kaitou gasped. Gathering his legs, he pressed against the cold slick door, gritting his teeth when pain stabbed his leg and arms, yet pushing, gaining his feet temporarily. But he could not hold his balance, fell forward to his knees. "Try... keeping... your holidays straight."

Hiroshi snarled, "You-!" But with a small sudden grimace, the half-demon regained his air of self-possession. He took time drawing in and releasing smoke, obscuring the glass dragonfly that still hovered near his shoulder. "Ah, I understand now."

_I don't like that look. What does he understand?_

"Wrong time of year indeed. Holidays on his mind. Valentine's Day doth approach, and he's moonstruck."

Kaitou moved his icy lips. "Moon... what?"

Malice lit Hiroshi's features. "Love comes to our boy wonder of the pen at last, is that how it goes? Giving up the predatory blondes and redheads for some mousy little nobody with eyeglasses. How quaint. How charming. What's the creature called again? Michi-something?"

"Leave her out of this!"

"Pity you won't be keeping your date with her tonight. But maybe I'll go in your stead. Once I've finished with you, that is. And then I'll start in on her. This Michiko. After all nothing exceeds like excess."

The name of his beloved, uttered from that smirking mouth, struck lightning to Kaitou's heart. "Don't. I'm warning you."

"She appears somewhat frail. I'm sure I can at least force _her_ to beg. I will derive much satisfaction from that."

"If you even try-"

"Very well," Hiroshi sighed, with the air of a patient mentor teaching a particularly stubborn pupil. "Epitaph or no-it really is your funeral."

"Maybe so." The rain had stopped again. Kaitou felt a cool, burning anger animate his blood, and lend strength to his voice. "But she'd never look at you-not if you're anything like your third-rate essays."

Hiroshi blanched.

"Why do you think not a single one of your bloated, pedantic pieces made it into any of _my_ newspapers?"

The canny eyes narrowed. "Careful what you're saying-"

"And did you imagine I wouldn't recognize Oscar Wilde's _The Ballad Of Reading Gaol?_ Is plagiarism of a greater intellect another of your demonic powers?"

Hiroshi studied the ground, his hands shaking. The glass dragonfly at his shoulder bobbled.

"Talk about stupid," Kaitou went on. "You tipped your own hand, jumped to conclusions because I left the computer on."

"Of all the inhuman-" Hiroshi sputtered with outrage.

"Tried to be human, did you?" sneered Kaitou. "Failed at that, too. Hiei was more human than you could ever be."

"Stop that! Stop!" White as the moon, Hiroshi Ukyou pressed both hands to his ears. Then he straightened, glanced back near the safety railing, at the hammerhead of glass that had struck Hiei down: big, heavy, razor-edged.

Hiroshi raised his shaking hands. The hammerhead wobbled upward, but slowly, as if it was too heavy to manipulate.

Flashscape: cat, dancing on silvered grass.

Kaitou struggled up on one knee, then lunged to his feet.

Picture the soul boiling up and away from the body in a wash of self-colored flame: Botan's shimmering blue, Kuwabara's blazing gold like a sun with his warrior spirit. What color was Hiroshi's soul?

Hiroshi knew nothing of Kaitou's Ability. It was Kaitou's sole advantage. He was not playing to live now, but playing to win. What word to choose? 'Wilde?' Something Wilde would say? No, they could talk around that all day. _Don't overthink._ If he'd learned nothing else from battling Minamino at Yojigen Mansion, it was not to overthink. _This is my last hope. If I don't take his soul, Miss Michiko will be-_

_What's Hiroshi likely to say? What-_

_If I shout. Startle him into saying it._ "Th-the T-taboo word is-"

Kaitou Yuu struggled to form the word, to initialize his Territory. "-Th-the word is-"

He never got a chance to speak it.

Cutting him off, eyes wide and rolling, Hiroshi began to spit words like a cobra spits venom: How dare you-Who do you think you are-What gives you the right-

It seemed as though his carefully-composed mask were made of papier-mache, dissolving fast in the rain.

Still sputtering, with one jerk of his finger, Hiroshi brought the glass hammerhead to his side. Slashing the air with outstretched hands, he sent the weapon across the rooftop. It traveled end over end toward Kaitou, slow but gathering speed.

Kaitou refused to close his eyes as death whistled toward him. He opened his mouth to shout the Taboo word.

Hiroshi shrieked, "Die, you bastard!"

There came a hollow, sodden sound. Blood gushed-but not from Kaitou.

A broken sword exploded through the front of Hiroshi's chest. Gouts of black liquid burst from his mouth. The glass hammerhead crashed to the rooftop, inches from Kaitou.

_What the-?_

And someone said, "You first."

Hiroshi clawed uselessly at the broken sword. Then he slumped to his knees, and fell face-down on the roof.

"I said your opponent was _me_." Hiei stood on the safety rail, shaking like a wind-tossed leaf, scratched and torn and bloodied, but alive. Dropping onto the roof, he fell to one knee. "Hey, Yuu. Don't insult me again."

There was a faint buzzing in Kaitou's ears. "Wh-?"

"Calling me human." Looking indeed like it was three days after his death, Hiei rose and trudged over to Hiroshi's body. "And we gotta stop meeting like this."

The wind cut through Kaitou's wet clothes and set his teeth chattering. "True," he rasped. "Funny how you always show up when someone tries to kill me."

"Funny how you always need your ass saved." Hiei reached Hiroshi. "Fool. If he'd taken the hilt from my hand I'd be done for." Grasping his broken sword, Hiei strained to retrieve it. The effort sent him tumbling backward. He splashed down, then lay still.

Kaitou tried to shout, _Hiei! Brace up!_ No sound emerged.

But maybe that unheard shout was enough. Rolling over, Hiei struggled to his knees. "Look at this thing. Blood all over." He levered himself to his feet and hobbled toward Kaitou. "Disgraceful."

Kaitou tried to get up, but Hiei kept going in and out of focus. The persistent buzzing in his ears grew louder.

His vision darkened, as if burnt at the edges. The world was tinted red, spangled with flecks of gold. Kaitou felt a rising and falling, as the rocking of a gentle sea.

Hiei was a darker smear against the sky. "I am NOT sharing a hospital room with you," Hiei muttered, then once more toppled to his knees.

Too dizzy to remain standing, Kaitou mirrored Hiei's fall, sliding down to his knees, then onto his side.

He had stopped shivering, and no longer felt the cold. The buzzing in his ears was like a beehive.

Too much effort to keep fighting the sea. Its motion was almost pleasant, beckoning him to relax, to allow the waters to carry him where they would. He wanted to sleep.

Didn't you have to stay awake when you were dying? No, that made no sense.

The waves rocked him, calmed him. Weary beyond measure, he gave in. As his eyes melted shut, he perceived an odd blurring of the roof, of the sky, of Hiei, all of them going indistinct, seen through fog.

Then Kaitou Yuu let go, and felt himself drift out to sea.

(To be continued: That strange voice-is it an angel?)

-30-


	12. Angels With Fur

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon, C12: Angel With Fur

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: K+/PG-13

Summary: The cat-is it real, or nothing more than illusion?

A/N: Original character Ueda Issei (and his Agency) were first introduced in _Operation Rosary_. Father Brian and Dr. Smith, other ocs, made their debut in _Idiot Beloved_ and _Firebird Sweet._ Character sketches on my LJ homepage. As always, thanks for reading this, and please review!

"Cat? What cat?"

The Book of Cat With Moon (C12: Angel With Fur)

by

Kenshin

Kaitou Yuu felt cat's paws kneading his chest: the rhythmic needle-prick of sharp little claws extending and contracting.

He heard voices nearby. Many voices. They sounded worried. Kaitou could not open his eyes.

Yet there was a heaviness on his chest, a warmth. The scent of clean fur, the cold touch against his throat of a metal tag hanging from a leather collar. He felt a tickle of whiskers. A cat's broad head rubbed against his chin, as if to say: _Everything will be all right. Just breathe._

The sound of purring was loud in his ears.

"Kitty, kitty." He tried to lift his leaden arm, stretch out his frozen hand to stoke the dandelion fur, but his body refused to obey.

His head whirled. Bells tolled in the distance, soon swallowed by a muffling fog. Then nothing.

0-0-0-0-0

"Ahh, sure an' he's a tough little bastard. I've seen him bounce back from worse." It was a man's voice, speaking in a curious, lilting English. And since Kaitou had heard this particular voice before, it could hardly be that of an angel.

_I'm alive. Alive._

Cool fingers took Kaitou's pulse. There was an IV drip in his left arm, supplying fluids, though he still experienced dehydration in the form of a wooly mouth.

His head ached. Pain burned with a dim fire in his limbs. He pried open his eyes.

Overhead, a powerful light blazed, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut again.

Then he remembered: Hiroshi Ukyou, friend for many years, Hiei's sword through his chest. And as for Hiei himself-

"Stay down, please." This time, a voice spoke in Japanese: the familiar contralto of Minamino Shuuichi.

"Hiei," Kaitou began, squinting. "Where's-"

Dressed in a white lab coat, Minamino bent over him, doing something to Kaitou's IV drip so swiftly Kaitou barely felt it. "We're in Dr. Smith's office."

_Not a hospital?_ "Will Hiei be-"

"I don't think the cuts on your face will leave scars; I used a special dermatological preparation. Your hair is thick, so it protected your head somewhat. However, scalp wounds bleed freely and you received quite a few."

Kaitou repeated his question.

Minamino went on as though Kaitou had not spoken. "We dug some glass slivers from your scalp and closed the wounds with a couple of stitches. Though your scalp should heal nicely, I'm afraid you've got a bald patch where we shaved it. Your forearm cuts were shallow, but the wounds to your right shoulder, left arm, and right thigh required more stitches."

"But Hiei?"

"You'll recover," Minamino assured him. "Father Brian will stay with you for now. I've got to assist."

Whatever sedative Minamino had added to the IV drip, it was already taking effect. Even as Kaitou opened his mouth to press for information, he drifted off again.

0-0-0-0-0

When Kaitou Yuu again swam up through the haze of voices, he felt somewhat more alert. _Third time must be the charm._

He lay on a gurney, clad in a hospital gown, with a light blanket spread over him. The pull of bandages and stitching on his face, arms and legs claimed his attention. He was sore and uncomfortable and chilly, but thankful to be alive.

"Ahh, you're awake." The lilting voice from before spoke. Kaitou raised his head.

Father Brian McCormick stood at the foot of the gurney, his thick arms crossed over his chest. A compact man of about 50, looking like a pit-bull in search of a fight, the priest was not wearing his vestments, but 'fatigues' consisting of sweats that matched the color of his salt-and-pepper hair. "And how are we this fine evenin', my lad?"

"You tell me," Kaitou murmured, trying to take in his surroundings. The cocktail of sedatives and painkillers had misted all his senses, but he could discern white tile walls, and a bank of glass-fronted cabinets, and blinds pulled down against the night, and perhaps, prying eyes.

He turned his head, but it felt like iron bands were clamped to the base of his skull. Just past Father Brian, Shayla Kidd was visible, with her back to Kaitou. She, too, was clad in sweats, but hers were black. _What's she doing here? The wife-and a priest? Don't tell me-!_

"Well, now you're awake, I'm off," Father Brian said. "No time for lollygaggin' with malingerers." In a long-suffering stage whisper, he added, "Ahh, the mission never ends."

He patted Kaitou's good shoulder, adding, "You want to keep an eye on that pissant friend of yours. He'll be the death of you yet." Then he swept out the door.

"Shay-san," Kaitou cleared his throat. "About Hiei-"

"I must be invisible, the way you're talking."

Gritting his teeth against the inevitable pain, Kaitou turned his head toward the sound.

In the far corner of the room, to Kaitou's left, Hiei sat in a chair. A sense of relief spread through Kaitou. "I should have known you're too stubborn to die," he said.

"That's a matter of opinion." Hiei's face was battered and bruised, and beneath the loosened mantle, numerous bandages gave him the appearance of a half-wrapped mummy.

At Hiei's side, Dr. Smith studied the parquet of dressings, then stood to regard Kaitou with strikingly youthful eyes that contrasted with the rest of him: dour of face, middling of height and years, Smith's egg-shaped head sported a thatch of thinning brown hair. "I assume we are all still among the living?"

Minamino was at Smith's side, busy with a stainless-steel tray of bloodied gauze. Kaitou's stomach squirmed.

"Diaper Boy put in an appearance before," Hiei said.

"Koenma?" That fact took Kaitou by surprise.

"You just missed him."

"I'll try to bear up." Koenma and Father Brian accounted for; Minamino-Smith-Hiei. Shayla Kidd. But Kaitou could not see the dandelion Persian anywhere. "What about the cat? Did Koenma-sama take it with him?"

"Cat?" Hiei scowled. "What cat?"

Dr. Smith gave an offended sniff. "As if I would allow a _cat_ in my surgery."

"You must have been dreaming," Hiei said.

"But the cat was right-"

Shayla Kidd, busy now with a Thermos and mugs, interrupted. "You could use some tea." Her voice was steady, but her face was white and the Thermos rattled in her hands.

She brought Kaitou his tea, then placed one of those still-shaking hands against his cheek and gave him a watery smile.

Kaitou nodded his thanks, struggling against the lump that rose in his throat.

Carrying the metal tray, Minamino headed for the door. "That was well done," he told Shayla Kidd in passing.

_What was well done? Making tea?_

"It's tough sometimes." Still a bit pale, she spoke to Minamino, but her eyes were on Kaitou. "You persevere."

The warm mug soothed Kaitou's icy hands, and the tea was blissful to his dry, raw throat. He studied his companions. Hiei seemed half amused, half annoyed; Smith and Minamino mostly business. Only Shay-san strugged to keep a lid on herself.

When Kaitou could trust his voice, he asked her, "How do you manage-this?"

"Heavy drinking," she responded.

"Don't listen to her," said Hiei. "She's just a woman."

Shayla Kidd flicked a glance at Smith. "There's a bottle of gin hidden in every doctor's file cabinet. Common knowledge."

"Under 'B,' for Bom_baay_," Smith purred, drawing out the last syllable. "At least it's quality gin."

Minamino returned with a fresh supply of bandages. As he went to work on Hiei, Kaitou noted Hiei's demeanor: almost sheepish, in sharp contrast to his behavior at other times-as when he had harrowed Frog-face. Hiei's savagery toward the demon mugger still troubled Kaitou. "Hiei," Kaitou began. "I've been wondering-the way you were with Frog-face back then-"

Hiei gave a dismissive snort. "What, you never heard of good-cop-bad-cop?"

"Good cop-WHAT-what?"

"I was acting," said Hiei.

"Acting," Kaitou repeated, and before he could stop himself: "If only you brought that level of realism to your film roles."

To his surprise, Hiei exploded into staccatto laughter-then stopped in mid-breath, his face ashen.

"Perhaps," Minamino said, "we could save the more strenuous abuse for when Hiei's fully recovered."

"Sorry," murmured Kaitou.

"We don't want him popping his stitches," Minamino added.

"Kurama got to use actual needle and thread on me." Hiei snorted. "He's in his glory."

Before Minamino could respond, there was a tap on the door. "Oh just come in," barked Smith, and, to Kaitou's astonishment, in came the stranger from the Silver Moon Cafe.

"I'm back," he said. He was about Urameshi Yuusuke's height, and had the same coloring, but there the resemblence ended. About a decade older than Yuusuke, he sported brush-cut hair and a gray sharkskin suit, as when Kaitou first saw him. But now, he looked nothing like an accountant.

Hiei introduced him as Special Agent Ueda Issei. The agent gave a formal bow. "Forgive my intrusion," he said to Kaitou. "But there are still a few details I need to clear up."

Kaitou nodded. "Hiroshi..?"

"Still alive," said the agent.

"What?" Kaitou looked around fearfully.

"Not _here,_ you dolt," said Hiei. "Koenma took him into custody."

"You're kidding." Vivid was the image of Hiroshi Ukyou, gaping as Hiei's sword jutted from his chest. "But I saw-I mean, I thought Hiei had-"

"This guy." Issei indicated Hiei. "Even after falling off a building-"

"Halfway off," Hiei corrected. "Get it straight."

"This guy's accuracy with a sword-"

"-half a sword-"

"-is remarkable. Talk about threading a needle!"

Hiei shot him an acid look. "And now I have _paperwork_."

"Don't we all," said Issei.

"Not as accurate as with an unbroken sword. That bastard's wound was serious. Koenma used some of his powers to treat him."

Kaitou wondered at that. "Yet here we are with-"

"Just needle and thread," Hiei confirmed. "We don't rate. Anyway Minamino's been dying to sew me up like a sock monkey."

"There's a silver lining to everything," said Minamino.

"I swear," grumbled Hiei. "I run him through _one_ lousy time and he holds a grudge forever."

"About Hiroshi," Kaitou said. "What will happen to him?"

"Depends on the findings of the investigation," the agent replied. "Hiroshi's human half may grant him immunity from an automatic death sentence."

"Demons who kill humans," Hiei put in quickly.

"He sang like a canary." Issei's gaze shifted respectfully toward Shayla Kidd.

_Is that what Minamino meant about 'well done'? Questioning a man who tried his best to kill both Hiei and myself?_

She, however, seemed absorbed in washing the tea mugs in a small stainless-steel sink.

Then, while the others gave them some privacy, Issei debriefed Kaitou. Kaitou felt utterly drained by the time the agent finished, saying that his testimony might be needed 'at some later date.'

It already seemed as late as it was possible to get. _Can't take it all in now. Too much to handle. Maybe tomorrow._

Then Minamino handed Hiei a vial of medicine, which the fire demon dutifully drank off.

Issei watched with evident curiosity. "What's in that?"

Hiei shuddered. "Poison, by the taste of it."

"That's all well and good," said Issei, "but if you add a B-complex, St. John's Wort, echinacea and-"

"Yeah." Hiei assured him. "That'll happen."

Special Agent Issei drew himself up. "And my vitamins differ from Minamino-san's nostrums... how?"

"Yours come in a bottle. From a store."

"Yes, I can see how that would erase their efficacy." With a wink of his dark eyes, Issei said to Kaitou, "Don't take that man too seriously. He's a complete head case."

"I'll get the restraining ropes," said Minamino. Hiei lifted a scornful lip to reply, but Smith simply glared them all into silence.

"Sometimes the people you're teamed with are a pain," Issei concluded. "You get used to it."

"No, you don't," said Hiei.

Bowing, Special Agent Ueda Issei took his leave.

A stillness descended on the room. No one else spoke. Shayla Kidd dried tea mugs to the tick of the wall clock.

As Smith and Minamino put the finishing touches on Hiei's bandages, Kaitou felt some of his strength returning.

Soon he would be able to get up and dress. He would even go home, but it would take a long time to fully absorb what had taken place with Hiroshi on the roof.

Settling back on the gurney, Kaitou sighed. "Poor Hiroshi. He seemed so lost."

"Until he tried killing us both," Hiei reminded him.

(To be continued: A tense meeting on a foggy avenue marks the end of an era.)

-30-


	13. To The Fallen

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon, C13: To The Fallen

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: K+/PG-13

Summary: Loss, regret, and another shocker wait in store for Kaitou Yuu.

A/N: Character sketches viewable on my LJ homepage, linked here. As always, thanks for reading this, and I appreciate your reviews!

To those who were lost, and those who are about to be.

The Book of Cat With Moon (C13: To The Fallen)

by

Kenshin

Hiei had taken matters into his own hands.

He was far from stupid, and with his superior ability to detect demons, even half-demons, Hiei had undoubtedly deduced Hiroshi Ukyou's heritage long before the rooftop battle.

But perhaps Hiei's intervention was fortuitous. Though the Agency had suspected Hiroshi Ukyou of murder, action at a distance leaves no evidence; even garbage pails filled with broken glass can not stand up in court.

Ueda Issei's search of Hiroshi's journals revealed nothing but pedantic essays on Spring or Beauty. And if he'd written 'I did it!" in big red letters, that would still be torn to shreds by any semi-competent lawyer.

Thanks to Hiei, the killer was caught in the act.

And, thanks to Shayla Kidd, Hiroshi had made a shockingly detailed confession.

Two people dead by Hiroshi Ukyou's hand: Hiroshi Sachiko, antiques dealer. Hiroshi Osamu, long-time researcher for the Agency. Both deaths ruled accidental by the normal channels of authority. That record would stand. Only Koenma-sama, the Agency, and one other earthly authority knew the truth.

Now, N's office, and sake. A celadon-glazed flask and two cups, painted with the traditional _kutani_ symbol-Nine Valleys, had been acquired from Hiroshi Sachiko.

Issei and Mr. Narita Shun sat on opposite ends of the conference table, the sake between them. N looked deceptively tranquil, his dark eyes hooded, his thickish figure impeccable in a charcoal pin-striped suit.

The sake was not ordinary everyday _futsuu-shu,_ but _tokutei meishou-shu,_ brought out for special occasions. Its scent reminded Issei of furniture polish, and underscored the fact that he was no drinker. Nevertheless, in this instance...

Issei studied the painting N had also acquired from Hiroshi Sachiko. The peony branches spoke of eternal spring, the butterfly of new life.

N perceived Issei staring at the artwork. Hiroshi Sachiko would never see another spring, never look upon another painting.

They raised their cups. "To the fallen," Issei said.

"To a uniquely courageous lady," N added.

They drained their sake in silence. Outside, the sun was just coming up.

0-0-0-0-0

Kaitou Yuu and Hiei were preparing to leave Smith's office.

Once the first whirlwind of visitors had passed, Kaitou remembered Miss Michiko. "She'll think I stood her up!"

But Shayla Kidd had already contacted Fudo Michiko, saying Kaitou was 'unavoidably detained,' leaving it to Kaitou to decide how much to explain.

Someone had indeed called in the troops; not only was Kaitou's overcoat recovered from the office, but any bloodstains not washed clean by rain had also been removed.

Kaitou tried to thank Hiei for saving his life. He never got the chance. Before Kaitou could come up with a decent response, Hiei, without a backward glance, was out the door.

Kaitou slid gingerly into his coat and started to follow. Just as he reached the door, he happened to look at his hospital gown, still on the gurney. What he saw there made him return.

On the front of the gown lay a single long gray hair, as though from a Persian cat's pluming tail. Blinking in astonishment, Kaitou picked it up and held it fast.

0-0-0-0-0

Kaitou returned to his silent apartment just in time to catch the morning news. There was nothing about Hiroshi Ukyou, nor was there ever likely to be.

For once, he did not relish being alone.

The painkillers and sedatives were wearing off, leaving him jittery and sore. Though he had been given prescription bottles of both, he refused to take them, fearful of nightmares.

When his doorbell rang, he jumped. Apprehensive, he tip-toed to the door and peered through the peephole.

Kaitou's heart gave a leap. Distorted by the fisheye lens, Miss Michiko wore a man's overcoat two sizes too big for her, which only made her appear more heartbreakingly adorable.

He undid the latches and opened the door. "Michiko-san!"

Once inside, she studied Kaitou's face, while he ached to embrace her. But they had not progressed beyond holding hands, and now was not the moment to press for more.

The silence grew to an uncomfortable length. Her little figure appeared striated and shattered, and Kaitou realized he was so used to seeing through broken lenses, he had neglected to put on a fresh pair. He blurted, "I was moongazing. Tripped."

Though not exactly a lie according to the letter of the law, it was a lie in spirit.

Behind her own eyeglasses, Michiko's forest-pool eyes swam. "Shinta likes you," she said, in her sweet little voice.

"The feeling is mutual." Even the mention of Shinta's name brought a smile to Kaitou's lips.

"I understand." Then, narrowing her eyes, she nodded, inhaled a deep breath. "And it's Shinta I must think about."

She went on to explain why.

Kaitou listened in stunned silence. The remainder of what Miss Michiko had to say left him feeling like a piece of flotsam adrift on the Arctic ocean.

Kaitou had thought that the ordeal with Hiroshi Ukyou was his worst moment. He was proven wrong. Miss Michiko turned and walked out of his door, and out of his life.

0-0-0-0-0

Kaitou and Hiei met again some two weeks later, on a foggy afternoon, in the street that housed Eberle's Bookstore.

Kaitou had spent much of the intervening time trying to figure out what he should do. Perhaps he would leave Tokyo for Sweden, switching places with gloomy novelist Stig Stigmarsson.

Hiroshi Ukyou would have found that amusing.

But Kaitou had unfinished business. Today, he had been heading toward the bookstore, hoping to confront Miss Michiko at work, hoping to get her to talk to him again.

But when Hiei emerged from the far end of the street, mists boiling round him like a figure of eldritch legend, Kaitou froze.

Hiei glanced up, stopped.

Fog nuzzled their faces like an inquisitive cat.

Knowing that hesitation and subterfuge had cost him in the past, Kaitou walked up to Hiei. Uttering a quick apology, he explained how he could not possibly take part in any sort of teamwork that involved demon-slaying. He had done his share. He was no athlete, not cut out for this sort of thing.

Hiei listened, his face unreadable. Once again, without a word, he turned his back on Kaitou and took a few steps.

_Isn't that just like him?_

Then, in the middle of the street, Hiei stopped.

A woman passing by took one glance at Hiei, then hurried in the opposite direction. Kaitou felt a sudden chill.

Turning, Hiei stalked toward Kaitou.

In all the years of their friendship, Kaitou Yuu had seen Hiei amused. He had seen him annoyed. He had seen him battling for his life.

Never before had he seen Hiei shaking with rage-a hot, dragonish rage, which made the blood drop to Kaitou's toes.

Hiei rounded on him, teeth bared, eyes aflame, so fierce that Kaitou stumbled backward.

"How can someone smart as you be so stupid?"

"W-what the hell are you-"

"You still don't get it." Hiei cut him off. "We're at war. No one's got the luxury to sit it out."

"This little team of yours-fighters for love and justice-which one of you transforms into Sailor Moon?"

"You find it funny?" Hiei said.

"I find it tedious." These past weeks, Kaitou had lived under a pall of numbness from Hiroshi's attack. Now, all his feelings of outrage focused on Hiei, as though he'd swallowed a lump of slow-bubbling lava that was at last free to erupt. "You once said your fight-and I do mean _your_ fight-is against principalities and powers unseen."

"And they have henchmen on the physical plane."

"So?"

"There are guys out there," said Hiei, "who are not like Frog-face, not even like Hiroshi. They can't be reasoned with, can't be bullied, and they will kill you without hesitation."

"You're crazy to think I'm taking part in this 'battle.'"

"Everyone in that office does. From Smith who stitched you up to Shay-san who can wring the truth out of a man in a heartbeat and who treats you as one of her own, God knows why. From Father Brian who prayed over you to Kuwabara who hauled your sorry ass from the roof and didn't stay to receive thanks."

What Kaitou wanted most right now was for Hiei to leave.

"We each have a role." Hiei looked at his shaking fists. "I do the wet work."

Passers-by glanced their way, walked wide of them.

Hiei mastered himself. When he spoke again, his voice was saxophone-smooth, but Kaitou could sense the ticking time bomb within. "I do the wet work," Hiei continued, "and I am very good at it. I was cutting people apart when you were still crapping your diapers. Before I realized what taking a life meant. Killing made me happy."

Kaitou hardly dared breathe.

"I am on call 25 hours a day, eight days a week. It's part of my job to discern who I can spare and who I can't. If I make a collar and he sings like Frog-Face, fine. More often than not it ends in a bloodbath, and that blood ain't gonna be mine. Not when I'm all that's standing between Death and my loved ones."

"But I'm not-"

"Want to know the funny part? I can't be the man I was. And I'm not all that thrilled with the one I am now. The more I'm called to fight, the less I want to."

"So ditch the mission," Kaitou challenged.

Hiei studied the sidewalk. Sensing the potential explosion, people still gave them wide berth, squeezing close to stores on one side of the street and almost into traffic on the other.

"Because," Hiei said at length, "once you know the truth, how can you turn away?"

Yet he had no problems doing just that to Kaitou. Giving Kaitou his back, Hiei strode up the street until the fog swallowed him up.

0-0-0-0-0

It was now February, almost Valentine's Day, and Kaitou Yuu was alive. He should have been rejoicing in that fact. Rather, there was a perpetual hollow of fear and dread in his belly. He reminded himself to be grateful, but his old life had been yanked out from under him.

And he found himself facing Hiei once again.

They were not in the park, nor Smith's office, nor even the street. Hiei's summons had come as a surprise, but it gave Kaitou an opportunity that he seized.

They stood on opposite sides of a heavy practice bag, in a filthy weight room reeking of sweatsocks and fungal infections.

Kaitou almost gagged at the smell. "I'm going to need a bath in Lysol when I leave here."

Hiei gripped the gray leather bag. "Too much information."

And too much sorrow. Kaitou was forcing a cheerfulness he did not feel; the gym reminded him of Murota, lost to Sensui years ago. But Kaitou had come to ask a question that had been bothering him since before the rooftop battle that had nearly cost his life.

And he was also here to say good-bye.

Though Hiei had saved him three times over, Kaitou wanted no more of the dangerous world of demons. He preferred to shake hands and part on good terms.

He had finally connected with Miss Michiko, and her response had left him with some hope. She would see him again when he was ready to tell the truth.

If only he knew what the truth was.

Kaitou was no longer the same person he had been that night in the park, but he could not define exactly how. _Can't be who I was, not thrilled with who I am._

One wall of the gym had been mirrored floor to ceiling. In its wavery reflection, Kaitou bulked large against Hiei, but he understood there was no real comparison between them.

Hiei seemed fully recovered and quite calm, after the dust-up in the streets. Kaitou supposed that physically, he was close to recovery as well, though the wounds still ached in damp weather and he moved with stiffness.

Hiei wore gray sweats; Kaitou had dredged out his old set from Meiou Academy, surprised they still fit, thankful that they were navy blue and not fuschia pink.

The sun had barely risen; they were alone in the gym. Before Hiei could start the session, Kaitou announced that he was selling _The Weekly Roundup._

Hiei's eyes widened. "Your only success?"

"I wouldn't exactly put it _that_ way-"

"You know what I meant. Why?"

Kaitou shrugged, not willing to elaborate. Because he no longer wished to be head of an empire, to struggle with responsibilities he did not want and which were foreign to him. He had lost the freedom he once enjoyed as writer-about-town, but could never again return to those days.

"People will call you a failure."

"And no one will want my autograph." At least the sale would free Kaitou of that tedium, and clear the debt from his previous loan. There was even a little left over for the future.

Though if his future did not include Miss Michiko-

The widow Fudo.

It was Nogi's old overcoat Miss Michiko had worn the night she came to see him. She had revealed that her late husband, Fudo Nogi, dealt cocaine on the side. Nogi had kept her utterly in the dark about it, possibly to protect her, possibly not.

One night a Yakuza strong-arm disciplined Fudo Nogi so enthusiastically, he had died of the resulting injuries.

No wonder Michiko would despise secrecy.

"Focus," snapped Hiei.

Kaitou glanced at his hands. They had been expertly taped by Hiei, then encased in a pair of brown leather boxing gloves. He felt clumsy and utterly un-natural. "I can't move my hands."

"Shut up and hit the bag." Bare-handed, Hiei gave it what looked like the lightest of taps; the bag, which weighed as much as Kaitou, went spinning on its chains, shrieking in protest.

Kaitou took a deep breath, cocked his arm, then landed a punch. He put his full weight behind it, felt the impact all the way to his shoulder, but the bag merely gave a grudging sigh and moved about an inch.

"Amusing," said Hiei. "Now hit it for real." He tapped the bag again, sent it spinning.

"I'm no fighter. Not like you, anyway."

"Who is? Just hit the damn bag."

Kaitou adjusted his eyeglasses. "Why?"

Hiei let the bag go, giving it one last axle-spinning whack. Then he strolled to the gym's single, grimy window, which faced an alleyway, and turned his back on Kaitou.

_He's forever doing that. _

Of those who battled Sensui, only Kaitou had escaped unscathed. Yuusuke, Minamino, Kuwabara had all been injured. Yanagisawa and Kido took serious damage. Murota, who dreamt of becoming a professional boxer, and probably trained on a bag like this one, had lost his life.

Until Hiroshi's attack, Kaitou had never suffered a serious injury. He did not inhabit a world where life-and death struggles took place, where demons stalked and killed.

Yet all along, that world had existed around him. That was the true threat, not Lott Wingard with her spooky music or director Alasdair Cromwell with his cobra's eyes. Nor even Stig Stigmarsson, who was after all just another writer like himself, subject to petty fits and jealousies.

The bag spun on, but Hiei, standing at the window, paid it no heed. Kaitou grabbed the bag, if only to halt its mindless motion.

"Hiroshi could come gunning for you again," said Hiei.

"I keep telling you, this hero stuff isn't for me." In stark contrast to Hiei's apparent ease, Kaitou felt foolish, uncomfortable, his hands constrained in boxing gloves that did not fit him, would never fit him.

"You think?" Hiei turned back from the window, an irritating smirk on his face. "Now I have one last question: can you cast your Territory without picking a Taboo word?"

"Of course." Scowling, Kaitou tried to unlace the gloves, but it was a conundrum: you can't unlace one glove without first unlacing the other.

There was no warning.

While Kaitou struggled to free himself of the gloves, Hiei flew across the room. Kaitou barely saw him coming.

Teeth bared, eyes blazing hellfire, with one blow Hiei slammed Kaitou backward into the wall.

(To be continued: Has Hiei lost his mind?)

-30-


	14. Wet Work

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon, C14: Wet Work

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: K+/PG-13

Summary: Demons strike, and before there's time to react, you're dead.

A/N: As always, thanks for reading this; please review!

"What the hell are you doing?"

The Book of Cat With Moon (C14: Wet Work)

by

Kenshin

Without warning, Hiei struck, rattlesnake-quick. The blow sent Kaitou Yuu flying backward and slammed him into the wall.

_What the-!_

Dazed, sprawled on the floor, Kaitou watched Hiei advance. He looked dangerous, uncontrollable.

Baring his teeth in a wolfish grin, Hiei began to laugh, a sound rich with malice. "That was too easy." He clenched both fists. "And you've had it coming a long time."

With a great murderous leap, becoming a streak of gray too fast to track, Hiei launched himself at Kaitou.

And in a flash of cold rage, Kaitou cast his Territory.

Hiei bore down with sledgehammer force, struck with a bone-shattering crunch. Anticipating pain, Kaitou winced.

The blow never connected.

Meeting a shield far sturdier than the hamster Habitrail in that long-ago movie, Hiei's fist smashed into the shell surrounding Kaitou, and stopped short of Kaitou's jaw.

But Hiei could no more halt his speeding-train momentum than he could re-write the laws of physics. Eyes wide with shock, he sailed past Kaitou and crashed head-first into the wall with an impact that shook the gym.

Then he slid to the floor and lay still.

_Hope that broke his damned neck!_ Kaitou struggled in vain to flee before Hiei could launch another attack, broken neck or no.

Then, Hiei coughed. Rolled over. Got to his feet.

Neck unbroken, quite intact, he swiveled his head until his eyes met Kaitou's.

Kaitou glared back. Though his heart was thumping and he was unable to move, there was the fierce satisfaction of knowing Hiei couldn't lay a finger on him. _So that's why Hiei wanted to meet me here? He won't get away with this!_

Slowly, Hiei approached until he was standing at Kaitou's feet. Kaitou could not escape. He was trapped.

But Hiei was _beaming._ Absolutely beaming. As Kaitou gaped at him in disbelief, he extended a hand. "That," Hiei said, "was Lesson One."

_WHAT?_ "Y-you bastard!"

"Technically correct. My parents never married."

Kaitou took a deep, painful breath and sat a moment, collecting himself.

Hiei never spoke of his heritage. And though Kaitou thought of him as a fire demon, Hiei's sister Yukina, eminently sane and polite, was an ice maiden, making Hiei half-fire, half-ice. "You-hitting me to prove a point!-"

"I was running a two-for-one special."

"You bastard," Kaitou repeated.

"You purport to be a writer. Can't you come up with something better than just that?"

Hiei still held out his hand. Disdaining his offer of assistance, Kaitou struggled to his feet.

It was difficult to tell where the blow had been struck: between Hiei's fist and the wall, Kaitou ached all over. Limping to a nearby weight bench, he sat heavily.

Hiei sat next to him and enthusiastically displayed his bloodied knuckles. "You really do have the ultimate shield."

Of all the moods Kaitou expected from Hiei just now, elation was last on the list. "You. Are. Effing. Crazy."

"Yeah, yeah," Hiei said dismissively. "So this'll work on anyone within your Territory?"

Kaitou sighed. "Just ask Kuwabara." Unlike Hiei, Kaitou was somewhat less than elated, and his head felt like it had been caught in a drill press. "I really hate you."

"People will say we're in love."

"You underhanded little-"

"And I completely pulled that first punch," Hiei said, smug. "I know where your wounds were. I know anatomy. Even a putty-ass like you has some shoulder padding."

Padding or no, Kaitou grimaced. "I should withdraw my Territory and pop you in return."

"If you hit me like you hit that bag you might as well buy me a box of chocolates."

"Bastard." Kaitou released his Territory. His head felt somewhat better for it, but he still had those boxing gloves on.

Impatiently watching Kaitou struggle to remove them, Hiei unlaced the gloves. And while he worked, Kaitou realized that he, too, was suddenly elated. For whatever reason, the skirmish with Hiei had freed him.

For years, Kaitou's mind and body had been like a clenched fist. He had gotten so used to the oppression born of going it alone, that when it lifted, he sat back and sighed in blissful relief.

Hiei noticed. "I should hit you more often."

Given the fact that Hiei wasn't actually trying to kill him, Kaitou was not only relieved, but grateful enough to refrain from again pointing out the nature of Hiei's parentage. "But," he murmured, "that doesn't mean I'm signing on to the team."

"And here I thought I mounted such a persuasive argument."

Sitting in the gym with fire and ice at his side, Kaitou strove to explain his position. "About Sensui," he began, choosing his words with care, "I had no choice but to fight. It was an emergency. But I can't assume this vocation in ordinary time the way you-"

"There's nothing ordinary about these times."

"What good is my Territory, really?"

"Ch." Hiei pulled one glove off. "Stopped me, didn't it?"

"What's to prevent the attacker leaving?"

"The Taboo word."

Vivid in Kaitou's memory: Botan and Kuwabara, colorless, frozen like statues. "You think it's all that easy to get an attacker to say the Taboo word? Besides, I can't just rob someone's soul if I lack the skill to return it."

"I'd worry about that after the fact."

"But I repeat: I'm not you."

Hiei started on the second glove. "No fooling. _I_ know how to untie this."

"Genkai said not to use our-"

"Genkai lives off in the mountains."

Kaitou sighed. A small part of him knew that he was using Genkai's words as an excuse. He possessed a skill that would protect him, and never enabled it. Because that would mean-

-declaring himself a combatant.

Even as a child, Kaitou had sensed the growing chaos of the world, his obsession with monster movies being but a symptom of the larger disorder. And he had struggled to impose order on such chaos by means of pride in his intellect, scornful of anything others deemed ordinary, commonplace, mundane.

The only problem with that approach: it didn't work.

"Suppose," Kaitou began, "just as information-gathering, that I was in the park, and some demon's about to devour a little girl. So I cast my Territory. What then? Stay frozen inside until the last trumpet sounds?"

"You hit the panic button and the real firepower arrives."

"Panic button?"

Hiei reached into his pocket, withdrawing what Kaitou had always assumed to be an ordinary cell phone. "This device is linked to a communications net. We all have one."

"You're saying someone would get to the scene? Even if you were in the middle of shooting a video?"

"Like that hasn't happened already."

"I don't know. This is a whole new territory for me."

"Lousy pun." Both gloves were off; Hiei pulled the tape from Kaitou's hands, none too gently.

"Ow! Any lousier than 'Hey, Yuu?'" Kaitou squinted at his reddened hands. Hiei's looked worse.

"Hey, Yuu-if you'd cast your Territory on the roof, you wouldn't have those cuts all over."

Hiei was right, and Kaitou knew it. Cold and stiff, he pried himself off the bench. Moving forward hurt, but it was better than sitting still.

If only this iron dungeon would warm up.

When he had walked some six paces he stopped. "Hiei-" Now was the time for that crucial question, or it would remain forever unspoken, another victim of his fear.

Hiei remained on the bench; Kaitou lacked the nerve to face him. "I need to ask you something."

"No. You can't have my autograph."

Kaitou gave a half-hearted grin. "What you said on the roof, about how you always show up whenever my ass needs saving."

"Don't thank me, just throw money."

"How'd you know Frog-face was after me? For that matter, Hiroshi?" At last he turned to regard Hiei.

Hiei tapped his headband. "Kept an eye on you."

"Kind of coincidental, don't you think? And that guy Issei, that special agent. You knew him from before."

Hiei wadded the tape into a ball, then let it drop.

"Years ago, in the park, you cut up a demon that thought I was dinner." Kaitou took a deep breath. "Why?"

"I kill people and break things. Kind of a hobby."

A gym door opened, flooding the room with thin gray light. A man in his 20s stepped in. He was about the same height as Hiei, but twice as broad, with a head round as a cannonball and just as smooth. He waddled toward the rack of dumbbells.

Hiei looked at him. The musclebound man caught his gaze, turned on a dime, and waddled back out.

"You know what I mean," Kaitou said. "Why did you keep coming after me, time after time, until I finally showed up for Bad Movie Night? Not to stop me bashing Romantic Soldier."

"Actually it _was_ to stop you bashing Romantic Soldier."

"No. Really."

"Really. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep at night. Shay-san doesn't even wait until night."

"Hiei," Kaitou warned. "I did my homework. This meddling in someone else's affairs, it's not really your style."

"You're a style pundit now?"

"You work with Special Agent Ueda Issei. And others."

"Very good. Did you learn to tie your shoelaces as well?"

"Your job is to kill demons. But you also do protection."

"Who told you?" Hiei toed the wad of tape aside.

"You-just now."

While Kaitou counted the seconds, Hiei looked up, measuring him. "It's true," he said.

Kaitou turned away. He had merely suspected this before, but the words sank to the pit of his belly like a stone.

He had indeed done his homework. Everyone had unexpected depths; his mother demonstrated that. But among other surprises, Hiei possessed an expert eye for art; that icon of St. Francis de Sales, it turned out, was a valuable piece. Once Kaitou lost his initial fear, Hiei's company was enjoyable. Even flattering.

And, as with the arm candy Kaitou himself had once squired around town, it was nothing more than a job.

Maybe he _should_ feel flattered to warrant his own security detail, but the pain was worse than the blow to his shoulder.

He had come to say good-bye. Yet now, he was paradoxically disappointed, and strove to hide it. "So you do protection," Kaitou echoed, as though repeating it would remove the sting. _Why react with such childishness? A business deal is a business deal. I'm alive. Get over it and grow up._

Then Hiei spoke so softly that Kaitou strained to hear the familiar words: "You're dead, Kaitou."

Approaching the bench again, Kaitou studied Hiei, but his face revealed nothing. "And that matters because...?"

Hiei jumped up, sped to the heavy bag and struck it again. Hurrying after him, Kaitou grabbed the bag as Hiei hammered it, his knuckles leaving a red calligraphy on the gray leather.

"Well?" Kaitou pressed. "Why?"

"Search-me." Hiei spoke in rhythm to his blows. "Because -it's-really-beginning to lose-its luster." With one last blow he stopped, then returned to the weight bench to scoop the wadded tape from the floor. He tossed it in a trash can and slung the boxing gloves over his shoulder in a single movement.

The heating pipes ticked, reluctantly squeezing a handful of warmth into the gym.

"During the Sensui battle," Hiei went on, "I was laid up. You were deemed of value. The agencies I work for later sent me to keep track of you."

"You already said that. I meant-"

"But no one does protection for five years straight," Hiei interrupted. "The job took on a life of its own." He returned, keeping the heavy bag between them like a shield. "And... maybe you reminded me of me."

"Hiei-"

"Of course I was never so pathetic," Hiei said quickly.

"Of course." Kaitou waited.

"Outsiders. Both of us." Hiei studied the floor. "In my case, a killer."

"Not any more."

"You just haven't been paying attention."

"No murderer," Kaitou insisted. The power of Hiei's words, he realized, had set Frog-face up for a confession; that bad-cop routine had never been mere cruelty.

"Maybe you're right." Switching moods like lightning, Hiei laughed. "We're alike in one other way as well: neither wants to get involved."

"Yet here you are, trying to sign me up."

"Yeah. It's a rule. Urameshi changed me. Even the idiot, who did the right thing no matter what. At the Dark Tournament, for the first time, someone had my back."

_And now you have mine?_

"In the park, what I did to that low-class demon-"

"It was like watching a film with a jump-cut. I never saw you move, then the monster fell into pieces like a pot roast."

"And I was two steps from Death's front porch. Let's just say a year previous, a helicopter blew up with me hanging from its skids. Broke my spine in two places."

"So I've heard."

"Then you should realize a dislocated shoulder and some other injuries not worth mention wouldn't even slow me down."

This startled Kaitou. "But-on the roof, you-"

"Had a hard time of it?" Hiei gave a derisive snort. "I was never out to kill Hiroshi. He'd be dead before his first wisecrack. I was out to protect you and defeat him."

The filthy practice bag was probably marching armies of bacteria into Kaitou's pores. He released it to muster another argument. "So I'm a target. But what about my parents? Miss Michiko, and her boy Shinta. By what right do I endanger them?"

"None." Hiei's gaze was eagle-fierce. "But the instant your Ability formed, that target got taped to your back. Deny it, hide from it, move to another country, the target remains."

"Is this your idea of a signing bonus?"

"And it's up to you to decide how comfortable you are, lying to that Miss Michiko about the cuts on your face."

"I was getting to that."

"Blame me if you like," Hiei said magnanimously. "Say I popped you one, rubbed your face in the ground."

"I said I tripped over my own feet, staring at the moon."

"She didn't buy it."

"Lucky guess."

"Good. You don't want a stupid woman."

The door cracked open again. When Kaitou turned to see if Cannonball Head was back, his gaze brushed the grimy window set high in the wall.

Pressed against the other side of the glass, its copper eyes seeking his, was the dandelion cat.

(To be concluded: Heralds and portents - can Kaitou decipher their meaning?)

-30-


	15. Valentine's Day

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: The Book of Cat With Moon, C15: Valentine's Day

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Suspense

Rating: K+/PG-13

Summary: On the knife-edge of an eternal battle, darkness is always ready.

A/N: Final illustration for this fic viewable on my LJ homepage. As always, thanks for reading this to the very end, and I appreciate your reviews! This chap has been updated to reflect the preview of _Cowboy._

"What will I do with my life?"

The Book of Cat With Moon (C15: Valentine's Day)

by

Kenshin

Even with the big practice bag obscuring the view, even through the grimy postage stamp of a window, Kaitou could see it. Pressed against the dirty glass was the cat.

The cat of park and rooftop. The cat who, Kaitou was now certain, had breathed life into him at Smith's surgery.

_What's it doing here?_

The cat was covered in such an abundance of gray fur that it resembled a dandelion puff. Its eyes, the color of polished copper, gleamed with intelligence, and there was something of the lion's nobility in its flattish face.

Sun lit the cat's form, turning the tips of its fur fire- white. Some of that fire reached out toward Kaitou, haloed his head, caressed his face with warmth.

He basked in the moment.

Then, as though someone had flicked off a light-switch, the sky turned ink-dark, and a moon appeared over the cat's shoulder. The warmth vanished. Kaitou shivered.

Bathed in silver moonlight, the cat regarded Kaitou. Kaitou knew he beheld a wonder, inexplicable by ordinary means.

Yet an uneasy wonder, cloaked in a sense of disquiet. What was this cat trying to tell him?

Pushing back fear, Kaitou matched the cat look for look.

_The Book of Cat With Moon._

_That's no ordinary feline. I knew it back then, but what is its true nature? Portent, herald, angel? The very word, 'angel,' means messenger._

If he could just examine the problem from all angles. Contrast of day and night, light and dark-

"Hey, Yuu," Hiei said, "What is it?"

_Hiei-always so alert, yet he doesn't notice the moonlight?_ "Nothing, I-"

The door closed with a bang, distracting them both. When Kaitou again sought the window, the cat was gone, and with it both moon and magic.

_No, wait!-_

However, Cannonball Head had slunk back in, with reinforcements: two other meaty men cast in the same mold. They waddled as one toward the rack of dumbbells, and when Hiei ignored them, they heaved a collective sigh of relief and began their warm-up exercises. The clang of iron filled the air.

The disappearance of cat and moon left Kaitou empty and bewildered. Hardly aware of doing so, he walked toward a stationary bike in the corner of the room. Hiei followed.

Kaitou mounted the rickety bike and began to peddle; anything to give the illusion of movement. "Hiei, I know you want me to join the fight. I know your reasons. But I can't."

Hiei grabbed the handlebars. "You believe you're a coward because you're scared. Nothing could be further from the truth."

"Hiei-"

"You think I'm never scared?"

Hiei stood there, secure in his might, sure of his powers. "In a word," said Kaitou, "Yes."

"Think again. I have gifts of speed and strength you could never attain in a hundred years of training. Yet you, after losing enough blood to fill a kiddy pool, you held Hiroshi off."

"Luck and timing. I-"

"Listen to me! You have more raw guts than anyone!"

Kaitou shook his head.

"Oh? Then what exactly _did_ keep you going?"

"Easy," Kaitou replied. "I had to-"

_To protect Miss Michiko._ "Outside the bookstore, you made it sound like you were performing this 'mission' at the point of a gun."

Hiei looked away, muttered something. The noise of clashing dumbbells masked his words.

Kaitou cupped a hand to his ear. "What?"

Hiei raised his voice. "To protect and serve."

"Isn't that the motto of the Boy Scouts?"

"Ch! I never realized my true strength till I found someone to protect."

_It's as though he read my mind._

"Talk about a lesson in humility," Hiei said.

_Minamino's cool determination. Yuusuke's firepower. Kuwabara's courage. Hiei's-everything._

_Me: fear and flab, running my own two-for-one special. _

Back in Yojigen Mansion, Minamino had dismantled Kaitou because he knew Kaitou's weakness, used his own game against him.

Words, Kaitou's stock in trade. He had been surrounded by so many physical powerhouses that it blinded him to the obvious. _When I told Hiroshi what I thought of his essays, he turned white. That's what I've done all along, with my columns, with Everyman. Could that be called an ability, too?_

But even as Kaitou felt himself wavering, he held to the belief that life was not so black and white as Hiei portrayed it. "Okay. I understand you have to protect people from thugs like Frog-Face, but aren't you overstating the case?"

"No."

"Take Hiroshi; I still can't quite accept he's 'evil.' Unbalanced, perhaps, but-"

"Unbalanced?" Hiei lifted an eyebrow. "I hear you're a brain, so you'll know what a sociopath is."

Kaitou could reel off the textbook definition in his sleep: Sociopaths can be witty, charming. Manipulative and utterly lacking in conscience, faking human emotion when it serves their purpose, they will do anything to get what they want, with no sense of guilt or regret, barren of empathy or remorse.

"I knew Hiroshi's aunt," said Hiei. "That Sachiko."

That came as a shock. "You're joking."

"She sold me your icon of Saint Francis de Sales."

_He's not joking._

"You were unconscious when Hiroshi made his confession." A muscle jumped in Hiei's jaw. "He killed his aunt because she _annoyed_ him."

Kaitou stopped pedaling the bike. That Hiei should have a connection to the family was enough of a surprise. But to learn just now-

Too much to think about. Kaitou needed space.

He had rationalized Hiroshi's bizarre reactions to the deaths of both father and aunt. Thought of it as eccentricity, nothing more. But intellectually and morally, such an outlook was both weak and lazy.

Kaitou had simply refused to believe Hiroshi meant him harm-until too late.

Too late.

Mother and Father. Miss Michiko, Shinta.

In his mind's eye, Kaitou imagined them all, _saw_ them all, huddled in an alley. Hiroshi Ukyou blocked their escape, laughing: "You _annoy_ me." Waving sorcerer's hands, hurling bullets of glass toward Kaitou's loved ones. Father striving in vain to protect Mother; Miss Michiko flinging herself in front of Shinta, but glass found its mark.

So much blood-

"No!" Kaitou leapt off the bike. Sweat greased his face. Failing to act is itself a choice, giving evil the edge by default. The rooftop battle against Hiroshi had been the very jolt he needed to become fully awake.

Good and evil. Day and night. In razor contrast. The monster movies should have taught him that much. _How could someone as smart as me be so dumb?_

Kaitou mopped sweat from his face. He adjusted his glasses, took a moment to compose himself, then turned back to Hiei. "Evil flourishes when good men do nothing. Who said that?"

"I think it was Pikachu." Rude and abrupt as Hiei was, he faked nothing. Keeping half an eye on the bodybuilders, Hiei continued, "I'm not a good man, but I do a good job."

_Hiei-you're the best man I know._

The iron dungeon reeked of sweat. Before him, Hiei stood patient.

Kaitou took a deep breath. "All right. I'm in."

Hiei bared his teeth in a shark's grin. "So I take it you want dibs on the Sailor Moon outfit."

"Is that an obssession with you or something?"

Hiei strolled to the opposite wall and positioned himself against it, the better to keep tabs on the muscle brigade. With folded arms and lowered head, he appeared to nap, but Kaitou knew by now that appearances were deceiving.

Settling alongside Hiei, Kaitou let the wall hold him up.

Another bodybuilder shouted encouragement as Cannonball Head struggled to complete a set of biceps curls. "What will you do now?" Hiei asked.

"Wait for some demon to try to dismember me, I suppose, and see if my reflexes have improved."

"I mean now that you sold the paper."

Hiei's question forced Kaitou to admit he had no idea. Having basked in recognition at an early age, he was now set adrift. "The kind of money my books earned was good when I was a kid in high school but-"

"Yeah. Dependents are expensive."

"Maybe I'll write romance novels."

"Under a pen name I suppose."

"Just call me Barbara Cartland."

Cursing, Cannonball Head dropped his dumbbells. Hiei slanted Kaitou a wicked look. "If you think today's session was rough, wait till you see what real training's like."

"You're just trying to sweet-talk your way into my wedding."

"Depends on the quality of the buffet."

"So you think there _will_ be a wedding?"

"Eventually."

"Maybe you're right. In a year or two." Miss Michiko, with her cute little bob of a hairstyle and forest-pool eyes and sterling character. Kaitou could not let her go. He would tell her the full truth.

He had to win her back, if only to give Hiei a shot at the wedding buffet.

Hiei brought him down to earth again. "Don't overload your calendar just now because training starts tomorrow."

"For joy."

Another couple of thickset men waddled into the gym. Hiei frowned at the boxing gloves on his shoulder as though seeing them for the first time. "I think we've overstayed our welcome."

Kaitou peeled himself off the wall, then winced in pain. Getting knocked flat by Hiei had all but slipped his mind. "You know, you really had me going back there."

"Oh?"

"I thought you meant to kill me. You're a splendid actor."

"Ch."

"Except when the camera's rolling," Kaitou added.

With a half-lazy look, Hiei handed the gloves to Kaitou, then explained in detail what Kaitou could do with them.

"I don't want to," said Kaitou.

"Suit yourself." Hiei ambled toward the door. "Don't ram the gloves where-"

"I mean I don't really want to fight." Kaitou hung the gloves on a peg. _'I met a man who changed my life, then I met someone I wanted to protect,'_ Hiei had said. "But from today I'm on the job."

"The welcome wagon doesn't arrive till Tuesday."

"They'd better bring some air freshener, because my apartment still reeks."

"That's your sixth sense sharpening up. With Kuwabara, it's his 'tickle feeling.' Shay-san _hears_ it. You smell it."

"This just keeps getting better."

"Don't worry, those musclebound guys aren't _youkai_. Nothing more than normal gym reek-"

"And growing by the second." Kaitou reached for his coat. One decision made, he still faced an uncertain future. There was enough money to pay rent for a couple of months. After that, he did not know. But he was saying farewell to his old life.

_Who am I, really?_ He glanced at Hiei. _He said he's not sure who he is either, but that's not true. He's a protector, on the job. He just doesn't like it sometimes._

_But me? _

_Hiroshi, imitating Oscar Wilde. Me, imitating a fictional poison pen. Am I nothing more than just that?_

"Here's something else you'll love," Hiei said, breaking into his reverie. "This war is fought in the shadows. There are no accolades. And it's ramping up. Every day, more _youkai_ are being unleashed on the city, many of whom look as human as me."

"In other words-"

"The fight never ends."

"It's as though Valentine's Day were already here."

"There's always another monster." Hiei shrugged.

Coat dangling from one hand, Kaitou froze, but this time, not in fear. A sting of revelation widened his eyes.

_Always another monster._

The monster movies that had horrified and fascinated him as a child, and for which the public had an insatiable appetite. The Creature, Gojira, Frankenstein.

With a chill, Kaitou understood the epilogue of the cat's message.

_Frog-face and the monster in the park. Hiroshi, the monster in human form. And Hiei has seen things in Makai that even I can't imagine._

_I'll fictionalize each of them. Write the paperback equivalent of those old movies._

Once, Kaitou would have looked down his nose at writing mass-market paperbacks. Now it seemed a Godsend.

_Maybe they'll even open someone else's eyes. Maybe Hiei'll help me with background material. Maybe he'll do it for food._

Kaitou ached all over, but for the first time, he felt the leaven of hope. He glanced at Hiei. "Funny," Kaitou said. "I came to say good-bye to you, but now-"

"Now you're my own personal albatross."

"Gee, thanks."

"Anytime." Scorning the use of a coat, Hiei jerked his head at the door.

It would be cold outside. The hour was early, but the Silver Moon might be open. Kaitou gingerly shouldered into his jacket. "Guess this means you'll have to save my pompous ass every now and then."

"What are friends for?"

"Ch," said Kaitou.

"You don't do that very well. Like this: _Ch_."

"And here I thought it was the perfect imitation. Must be low blood sugar. I'll have you know that all this unaccustomed activity has whetted my appetite."

"Still in love with words." Hiei rolled his eyes. "Can't just say, 'I'm hungry.'"

"Sure can." Kaitou held the door open for Hiei. "I'm starved. And for once, the bill's on you."

Hiei replied, "The cat can pay," then breezed through the door, leaving Kaitou to follow.

-30-

(This concludes _The Book of Cat With Moon._ Thanks for reading it; please review! Scroll down now for a preview of a new and upcoming story.)

A Cowboy's Work Is Never Done

by

Kenshin

Summary: On a commercial shoot in California, Hiei is surprised by not only an ill-fitting costume, but someone who isn't what he seems.

A/N: This story takes place within the time-frame of _The Book of Cat With Moon_-here we see Hiei in his role as an actor in commercials (established in _Firebird Sweet_, and _Operation Rosary_).

0-0-0-0-0

Dabbing his upper lip, Dexter the intern quavered, "Madam says the accessories will help."

Hiei jammed on the ten-gallon white hat, which was a gallon short, and left him feeling like an iron band was clamped to his head. He strapped on the gun belt. For a prop, the gun belt was heavy. For a costume, the costume looked idiotic.

"Well? Do they help?"

"They don't."

"But Madam Fifi says the costume has to fit."

"Madam's not here squeezed into it like a sausage."

"She says it's made of a premium blend of 95 percent flexible Egyptian cotton and ten percent breathable French spandex."

"I don't care if it's made of melted diamonds. How can a substance be a hundred and five percent of itself?"

Dexter stitched his rust-colored brows. "I don't get it."

"Me neither. Hat's cutting off circulation to my brain."

"Madam Fifi says the hat is essential."

Madam Fifi was probably at that very moment glued to her copyrighted seat at the local Brew and Moo.

At least _she_ was getting fed. Hiei hadn't eaten since leaving the Kidd Estate two hours ago, which did nothing to improve his mood. The high-wire metabolism that enabled him to move at warp-speed suddenly seemed a burden. He grumbled, thinking mostly of his empty stomach, but also of the costume.

Dexter gave a sickly grin. "Madam Fifi says the costume will ease up once you move around."

"Move?" Hiei didn't look so much like a cowboy as a disgruntled Japanese _youkai_ crammed into an outfit designed for a nine-year-old American girl. One who was pretending to be both Roy Rogers _and_ Dale Evans. "How?"

"Try to look like you're itching for a fight, Madam says."

Hiei gritted his teeth. _Shouldn't be difficult. I'm thinking of going ten rounds with_ her.

"That's the spirit," said Dexter.

"Am I supposed to be fighting with anyone?"

"You haven't read the script?"

"I find it's better that way."

"Oh, a method actor, huh?"

"You could say that." Hiei had learned from painful experience that right up until the first shot and even beyond, scripts could change at the drop of a nine-gallon hat. He had done some research on the subject of cowboys, but this shoot could morph into a chorus line of dancing beer bottles in space.

"Y'know," said Dexter, but not to Madam Fifi, "right now I'm just an intern, but what I really want to do is direct."

_You and every other part-time waiter on the planet._

Also typical for an intern, Dexter was overworked and unpaid. And looking like he needed a cigarette.

_I'd need one, too, if it would get me out of here._

And if divining what a director wanted could be taken as a metaphor for battle, then squeezing himself into a tight cowboy suit could be a metaphor for squeezing himself into a life that did not fit: staying in the human realm, always on patrol, with a family to both provide for and fear for.

_Maybe I need a fight, and I don't mean duking it out with Madam Fifi_.

Hiei gave up the battle of the costume. No use standing around waiting for the Brew and Moo to run out of cow. He turned toward the privacy screen and tried to pry open the top button of his shirt.

_Ow._

A pain like an ice-pick attached to a cattle prod struck one side of Hiei's head, crackled through, and shot out the other.

It wasn't the effects of the nine-gallon hat. It was how he sensed _youki_.

He looked up. For a flash, there was a face pressed against the narrow basement window. A face that, in Hiei's fleeting impression, resembled a cross between a troll and an orc.

And it wasn't Madam Fifi returning early from lunch.

The creature saw Hiei. It bolted. He thought, _it's got nothing to do with me-let someone else handle it._ Then: _Well, here's your excuse to bail._

Hiei yanked off his cowboy hat and flung it at the astonished Dexter.

"Hold this," he snapped, then tore out after the demon.

(To be continued: someday!)

-30-


End file.
